Legend
by Koch
Summary: Follow-up to "Hero". A man left broken makes the hardest choice of his life. Again. After Awakening, possible spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

Once upon a time…

Once upon a time…

Once upon a time there was a man. Privileged. Born into power. Some might have called him spoiled. He longed for more every day. He desired more than he had, even when he had it all.

And because the Maker is a vicious and cruel god when He wants to be, this man was stripped of it all. Heartless, cold treachery that turned blood to ice and a heart to stone. Family, title, land, all lost.

But at this darkest moment, he was born anew. A Grey Warden, given life and purpose.

And the glimmering hope of love.

There was a woman. Beautiful, dark, mysterious. She was broken and vulnerable just as she was strong and unstoppable. And he could not fight himself, could not deny this love. And love her he did. Every ounce of him, every bit, loved her. He would have died for her, would have sundered the world for her.

But love is fleeting, easily rusted and exposed for the vile cruel thing it often is. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say to change things.

She left.

And behind her lay the broken remains of a man, shattered. An empty shell, full of bile and hate and bitterness. He was left behind, as she left for parts unknown, carrying with her a vile creation that he hated.

And hate he did.

Now, that same broken shell is a Warden Commander in Amaranthine, commanding the Grey Wardens and leading his men to victory time and time again. But victory does not come without price. Every time this man was left alive, left with his hatred and his emptiness. He was left alive while so many were dead or dying.

He sought his death willingly, every time he woke. There was not enough left of him to continue on, and he thought of those dark roads beneath the earth, where the Darkspawn lay. And he thought that he would one day travel there, and see if the Darkspawn could give him this death he so long sought.

But, as ever, it was not so easy…

Not when you are in love. Love is never so easy.


	2. Chapter 2

He sat, hunched over in the great chair at the head of the room. In his hand he held a goblet, filled with the wine made here in Amaranthine. It tasted fairly awful but he wasn't drinking it for the taste.

The hall was filled with laughter and music, the sounds that marked every victory. The halls were quieter, though, for the absence of Bann Esmerelle and her hangers-on. Lance had already decided to replace her with Ser Tamra, a woman who had proven herself to be very trustworthy.

Otherwise the festivities were carrying on as was the proper order. And they were well-earned, too. The victory at Amaranthine, the complete and utter end of the Fifth Blight, were hard won and valuable victories. They deserved their celebrations, especially considering that the repairs at Vigil's Keep had been recently finished.

But Lance Cousland, Arl of Amaranthine, Warden Commander of Ferelden, and brother to the Teyrn of Highever, could not bring himself to feel very elated. Instead he sat, and he stared into his goblet, watching the wine settle.

Occasionally someone would try to make conversation with him, and he would of course brush them off as quickly as he could. Arl Bryland of South Reach had arrived earlier, a friend of Lance's father and eager to see how Lance was doing now that he had a proper fief.

He brought his daughter Habren with him, and like all the others had dropped not-so-subtle hints about her lack of suitors.

"Ah, Arl Cousland," he said, giving a polite bow. Habren watched with wide, curious eyes. He tapped on the girl's shoulder roughly, and she bowed alongside him almost immediately. "I believe you've not had the chance to meet my daughter, Habren? Do say hello, my darling, the good Arl only has so much time on his hands."

"Hello, My Lord," she said politely. "I do love your taste in tapestries."

She indicated the wide banners that hung from the hall's ceiling, emblazoned with Griffons and the silver leaves of his House's heraldry. It wasn't his doing, of course, but it was representative of him nonetheless.

He regarded the girl with a flick of his eyes, barely long enough to size her up.

"You know," said Bryland. "My sweet Habren turned sixteen just this spring. She is so lovely – my pride and joy! I hope to one day marry her off to a suitable lord. Speaking of which, am I right in understanding that you are not yet betrothed?"

Lance looked at the man, frowning.

He spoke, his voice still gravelly and course from the wound he had received almost a year ago.

"Go away."

Bryland blinked, seemingly taken aback by such a comment. Habren too looked shock to hear such a command. She was not overly interested in marrying the Arl, but it wasn't exactly every girl's dream to be told off by a man she barely knew.

Bryland, though flustered, complied, and guided his daughter away to a nice batch of single nobles in the far corner. He was well aware that the youngest of the Couslands had been unwell since the victory at Denerim.

There were heavy booted footsteps beside the chair now, and Lance recognized them – as well as the smell – as belonging to Oghren, his second-in-command of the Wardens and good friend. He looked over at the Dwarf, his red beard and scowling expression.

"So, Commander," he said with a light chuckle. The Dwarf was already crocked, no doubt, but that wasn't exactly a departure from his usual self. "I take it you aren't a fan of the young ones?"

Lance glared at him, took a sip from the foul wine. He leaned back in the chair, reaching up to touch the scar at his throat.

It seemed like so many centuries ago that he'd been in that fort, with that bastard Hurlock swinging that damn sword.

"You can't let all this get to you," Oghren warned. "Life goes on, you know."

Lance knew what he was referring to. He and Oghren had developed quite a bond in the past few months. They were alike, in many ways, though Oghren was a lot friendlier. They had both fought the Blight together, had trekked to the depths of the Deep Roads. And had both lost someone special.

Lance stood abruptly.

He walked across the hall, to the balcony that overlooked the Keep. He pushed open the doors and stepped into the warm night air. The sky was filled with stars, and the moon was beginning to fill. He held the goblet up, over the rail so that it hung between his fingers precariously.

He wondered if he was alone, this night. If he was looking up at the night sky by himself. If maybe she was watching it too.

And he let the goblet drop, watched the red contents spill out onto the stone walls, listened to the goblet crack and splinter on the ground below.

It had been so long. It ached in his heart still.

And he turned to enter the party once more. His fellow Wardens stood, watchful. They were not his friends. They were not companions. They were subordinate to him, and he was their commander. He was alone, as he must be. Though he had become… close to a few of them.

Certainly Oghren was the nearest thing he had to a friend in the Wardens. He often gave his orders through the Dwarf, and spent hours sparring with him. There were times when they both drank themselves to stupor, with Oghren inevitably outlasting him. The Dwarf understood him, his loss. And he carried the Warden to his quarters, when he was too drunk to do it himself. He threw the Warden on the bed, pulled the covers over him and left the room.

He'd also allowed the Warden to sleep through his hangovers, made sure that he wasn't disturbed. He owed Oghren greatly, and proofread letters to his wife. Oghren had married a surface Dwarf by the name of Felsi and had a young son by the woman. There was some sort of incident with a roasted nug that kept her from talking too much about her prior relationship with Oghren and was a constant source of embarrassment from them both.

Lance nodded to him, let him know that he was still okay to stand, to be before this crowd. The last time they had such a feast Lance had to be pulled away from Lord Guy, for fear that he might kill the man. Certainly the servants made sure to fill his goblet only twice an evening since.

Anders stood off to the side, trying his best to flirt with the more attractive women. The man was an apostate mage, and not a very bright one at that. This had brought trouble upon their first meeting, when he insisted that he hadn't killed his Templar escort. Lance wouldn't have bothered to save him from the Chantry had he not needed to replenish the Wardens. The bastard _would_ be able to survive the Joining.

Of course, he'd proven himself as a capable mage and more than once had been able to save his life.

Sigrun, another Dwarf, was also looking at him with great concern. She was normally very cheery, making it hard to believe that she had once been a member of the Legion of the Dead. Her company had been slaughtered in the Deep Roads, leading Lance to recruit her into the Wardens at her behest.

She was a great fighter, and not at all morose. She lit the place up often and that saw her getting no small amount of quiet scorn from her commander.

In the darkest corner of the room stood Nathaniel Howe. The irony of it was not lost on Lance.

The Howes had once been the lords of Amaranthine, and of Vigil's Keep in particular. They had also slaughtered Lance's entire household not one year ago. Lance had killed Arl Howe in turn, and thus the name "Howe" was something of a curse in these parts. Nathaniel had been in the Free Marches as a squire before returning to his home.

He had hated the Warden Commander for some time. In fact their first meeting took place in the Keep's dungeon, where Nathaniel had been placed after being captured by the Wardens stationed there. When he had attempted to assassinate the Commander.

Lance loved the irony of it, and perhaps desired to set Nathaniel straight, and so recruited him into the Wardens. As much as Nathaniel hated the Wardens, _this_ Warden in particular, he did not desire to discredit his family's name further by refusing the call.

The two had gotten along marvelously afterwards, barely speaking two words at a time to each other. It was the sort of relationship Lance preferred.

And then there was Velanna. He hated her. Or he didn't, it was often hard to tell.

She was Dalish, and a mage, the Keeper of her clan or something, he tried not to care. She was… bitchy for lack of a better word. The Dalish weren't known for their love of humanity, and she seemed to hate them especially. Or at least she had.

She had grown quite a bit around the Warden Commander. She had learned a bit more. She sometimes talked of humanity with spite, but living among the Wardens, with the Commander… She had changed. For the better, he did not know.

He did watch her, sometimes, when he thought she wasn't looking. She had learned to read, been taught by Sigrun, and so spent countless hours in the library alongside the Dwarf, reading up on human history, Fereldan history in particular. She often asked the Warden Commander questions, worded in such a way as to not appear to be a question at all.

"You're family is important."

And he would nod his answer.

She was manipulative, candid, and sometimes she acted as though she were fighting against the world. It was so… like _her_.

It hurt to watch her so often, to see her act so familiar. He couldn't help but desire to spend time with her, even if it did make him sick to listen to her. And there were times when she seemed to desire time with him, to talk and interact and to do things.

He hated it. He hated it all.

He turned to Seneschal Varel, frowning. The Seneschal leaned in, brought his ear close to the Warden Commander's mouth. He listened, nodded, and then clapped his hands loudly.

"The feast has ended! Clear out," he declared. "You need not go home, but you must not remain here!"

The nobles looked flustered, slightly annoyed by the brisk end. They weren't used to being cast off so lightly, but they'd learned that the Warden Commander was such a man to do as he pleased. And he was a good lord, if not a polite one. And he had the support of the people, now that his soldiers were guarding the farmlands.

But the Commander was not one for the celebrations, the joy of victory.

And he left, quietly returned to his quarters, where he would open another bottle of brandy, and he would drink into the wee hours of the morning until he was too drunk to dream.


	3. Chapter 3

Velanna felt herself breathing shallow, trying to work up the nerve to knock on the Commander's door. It wasn't as though this were something entirely unusual; as much as Oghren was the second-in-command of the Fereldan Wardens, Velanna was the functional aide to the Commander. It was a job she had taken with no small amount of disdain.

There were over fifty Wardens in the Keep at the moment, most of them new recruits culled from the Fereldan military. But Lance kept to himself, and only ever relayed orders and commands through his very close circle of advisors and confidantes.

Although, he didn't even talk to them, really. He was quiet, and brooding, much like Nathaniel only bitterer. Velanna hadn't intended to stay this long, wanting only to go find her sister and take her back from the Darkspawn.

However, Lance needed her, and really all the help he could get, so she stayed on.

The Warden Commander deserved at least that much. She hated the _shemlen_, with a passion, but her time around the Warden had mellowed her quite a bit. She held no love of humanity, but she saw aspects that were pleasing. Mostly in the Commander himself.

What little she knew of him had been told to her by people that had once known him, mainly Oghren. The Warden Commander spent much of his time alone, in his quarters. He appeared only long enough to eat or train or do some other task. He was present at every Joining, though he never said more than two words.

Velanna assumed that he didn't often speak because of his throat wound. He must not have liked the sound of his voice, especially considering that he had once sounded normal, at least according to Oghren. She had a hard time reconciling Oghren's description of the man with the man himself.

According to the Dwarf, Lance had once been a normal, everyday person. He had laughed and joked, had been quite your average human. He'd been something of an inspiration, had been the one to unite humans and Dwarves and even the Dalish.

Velanna could believe that much; Lance did have a knack for charisma or understanding. Even though he was a quiet and introverted man he did manage to impart a few words of wisdom on Velanna that had made her view humanity in a different light. She had even stopped calling him "_shemlen_-Commander".

But for as many stories Oghren had of the Warden and the time they spent during the Blight, the living, breathing man was quite a bit different. He didn't laugh or joke, ever. And Velanna had at first appreciated this; humans were grating to the nerves and the fewer words they spoke the better. But now she found herself strangely curious.

He was a powerful man, with a natural combat prowess. He had impressed her, and she often tried to watch him during his sparring sessions with the new recruits. He almost always won. He spent many hours training with Oghren and she was almost positive that the Dwarf had shown him methods of fighting harnessed by his warrior caste.

There was something, though, some sort of unspoken bond between the Commander and Oghren that seemed to extend past their experiences together. Oghren had made mention of his wife in Orzammar, presumably before he met Felsi.

There were other times when Oghren would describe their past adventures over one of his bitter ales that he seemed to touch upon some aspect of the Commander that he refused to elaborate on.

Velanna hadn't paid too much attention, but had gathered that there was something there. The Dwarf would usually mention a mage that traveled with them, and stop suddenly, looking about to see if the Commander was present. And he never was. But Oghren would refuse to continue.

Velanna had worked that, had sat with Oghren for hours until he'd consumed enough ale to part with a few secrets. And from it, all she had learned was that there was a mage, and that the Commander had been close to her.

Of course Velanna could guess at the rest of the story. She presumed that the mage had fallen in battle, and that the Warden had been overcome by grief. It added an air of romance to the man, something that Velanna would normally have shrugged off.

But she was interested in him, perhaps a little more than she would admit. And this level of depth was something she was unused to with humans. She had never entertained the idea that humans cared about much more than destroying their environment. Yet this Commander had made her think differently.

She was embarrassed to admit it, and had on more than one occasion come close to vomiting at the thought of allowing a human to crawl over her. And yet the closer she got to the Warden Commander, the more… alluring the thought of a relationship became. He was exotic, strange. She was unused to extended contact with humans, and so she was amazed to learn such things from him.

To see this Commander in the flesh, to see him living and breathing and to hear the few words he would speak at any given time, was something made her curious about him. It had been a long time since she had ever thought about a man in such a way, and the first time she had ever considered a human.

And perhaps he had considered her.

There were times when he watched her, out of the corner of his eye or when he thought she wasn't looking. He must have been attracted, really, why wouldn't he? She was Dalish, and strange to him. She was attractive, even to humans. And perhaps the way in which she wielded the magic of nature was also attractive to him. Who wouldn't want to touch such raw power?

And there had been one instance where he spoke to her.

They had been alone, and he was again watching her. She knew, and let him.

And then, almost without warning, he'd said, "You should let you hair down."

She had. He must have liked that in a woman, must have enjoyed long hair. Perhaps she enjoyed him enjoying her.

But there were other nights, when he wasn't so nice a human. He had a tendency to drink to excess. Perhaps that was how he and the Dwarf had gotten to know each other, though Oghren insisted that the Commander was not a drinker.

And Velanna had seen to it that Lance was taken to his room to sleep off a night of too many ales, though the man would never stop drinking. She'd known men like him in her clan. Yet he was unlike any man she had known.

So she stood outside his door, anxious. She had an important letter that she had been ordered to deliver straight away, and was nervous about it. It wasn't the contents of the letter itself that scared her; she had no idea what was in it. Rather, she was nervous about having to confront the Commander about it.

It was foolish, she knew. He was just a man, and they were familiar with each other. She could easily have entered the room without knocking and she would not have been refused entry.

But he made her nervous, as much as she liked seeing him. She was scared, at least a bit.

"Stop it," she whispered to herself. She had no time for such girlish games. She had a job to do, and much to get done that day. He would no doubt accept the letter, place it on a stack of papers, and send her on her way.

So she knocked, lightly. And he spoke from within, his voice a coarse whisper from the other side.

"Enter."

She pushed the door open, stepped in. She was surprised to see him up already, dressing. It wasn't uncommon for him to still be in bed this late in the morning.

He was pulling on a shirt, his back to her. She was able to make a number of scars, including a wide one that stretched from shoulder to shoulder – left from an armored Ogre in the city.

"Letter for you, Commander," she said, holding it up. "Delivered by special courier."

He grunted, nodded to his writing desk. It never ceased to amaze her how bare his chambers were. Besides the bed and the writing desk, there was only a bookcase and an armor stand, the only objects of a personal nature he owned.

The stand displayed his dragonscale armor, the armor he didn't often wear despite its rarity. He could claim to be one of the few men to have ever killed a dragon, and had the armor as proof. Yet he left it in the corner to gather dust.

He lived very sparsely, she assumed.

She left the letter on his desk, for him to read later. And she stepped out, closing the door behind her. She thought about perhaps going back inside, perhaps enticing the Warden Commander to stay in bed for a few hours more.

And almost immediately she squashed the thought, tossed it aside. And she went to the Keep's mess hall, where she would eat breakfast and wait for the Warden Commander to join them. And of course he would not.


	4. Chapter 4

Lance rubbed his chin, thinking that he should have shaved several days ago. It was hard to find the desire to do so these days. His hair was also in need of a trim, but that was something else that wouldn't get done any time soon. He picked the letter up off of the desk, turned it around in his hand.

Whatever it was, it was written on expensive vellum and bore a seal that he did not recognize. Probably something foreign.

He was hungry, and so decided to head down to the kitchen, maybe actually eat with the others. Or perhaps not. He hadn't decided.

He tucked the letter into his pocket and headed down to the Keep's mess hall. It had more luxurious dining halls, but they wouldn't hold all of the soldiers and Wardens and Lance had no desire to decide who would get to eat where.

He was a little woozy still, having not had a decent chance to sleep off the booze from the night before. He drank a lot. The trick was finding a balance between the drink and sleep.

Now he had to wander the halls, looking like a proper Warden Commander, despite the fact that he was unshaven, unkempt, and otherwise looking like a beggar. There were still the soldiers that saluted him, a habit that the others had learned to break. He never returned the salute, only kept walking, ignoring them.

Some of the younger Wardens acknowledged him with a nod and a "Commander".

He ignored them, too.

He made his way to the mess hall, grabbed up a plate, and took his seat at the head of the table where his fellow Wardens sat. Oghren and Velanna were nearest him, sitting across from each other despite their antipathy.

None of his Wardens liked each other, with a few exceptions.

That suited him just fine, though. Less talking that way. He took spoonfuls of whatever sort of bread the cooks had made, mixing it with the gravy. It was decent, not the best. Though it had been a long time since he'd had a good meal, and that had been in the middle of the forest, in a ring of tents.

A long time ago.

He felt eyes on him, and he looked up from the plate, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Velanna was staring at him, sipping idly on a cupful of water. She only ever drank water, some sort of Dalish thing.

"What?" he asked. She shook her head, trying her best to look as aloof and vaguely pissed off as she always did. She returned her attention to her breakfast, making a visible effort not to look at him.

He watched her. She sat, relaxed, ate with an air of confidence in every motion. She wasn't dainty, but she had a natural femininity about her. She was so strong, so beautiful, and sometimes admitted to him vulnerabilities she wouldn't tell anyone else.

She was so much like _her_…

And he stood up abruptly, let his spoon drop loudly.

He pushed away from the table, stormed out of the mess hall into the Keep's wide courtyard. The sun was bright in the sky, mid-morning. He went to the tree where he sat sometimes, out of sight of everyone else.

He leaned heavily against it, slamming his fist against the rough bark to fight back the sobs that he might not have been able to control. He felt blood between his knuckles.

Quietly, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, he reached into his pocket. He withdrew a closed fist, brought it up close to his chest so that no one could see it.

And he stared down at the ring in his palm. It was made of rosewood, and the grain was an ever-shifting pattern of animals and people. It was a magical thing, something made countless years ago.

He hesitated, held it between his thumb and forefinger. He wanted to put it on, to wear it again. But it hurt so much to even hold it this close. He was afraid. What if he couldn't feel her? Or what if he could feel that she was happier without him? What if she could feel him?

He didn't want her to see him this way, to feel his emotions when he didn't even know how he felt.

"Commander?"

There was a tap on his shoulder, and he hurriedly put the ring back in his pocket, turning to face Velanna.

He grunted at her, indicating for her to state her business.

"Are you alright?" she asked. She looked concerned, something he wasn't used to seeing from her. She treated everyone else with mute disdain, a remnant of her life as a Dalish. She grew up hating humans as her kind was wont to do. She blamed humans for every little disaster that had befallen the Dalish. And he supposed she was right; humans had destroyed the Elven homelands twice now. But he didn't think that justified her being so rude.

She apparently agreed.

"You left so quickly from the table," Velanna said, looking away as though she were disinterested. "I assumed that there was something wrong. Perhaps something I could see to?"

She was referring to her magic. Lance took a slight step back, working to keep himself under control. He tapped his fingers nervously on his thigh, trying his damndest to hold back his Templar skills. He'd spent countless hours at the Royal Palace in Denerim, training with Alistair while Anora spoke with the various dignitaries.

Of course, that was when they were still on speaking terms, before they'd screamed at the top of their lungs at each other, before Lance had decided to begin a campaign amongst the nobles to burn down the Korcari Wilds.

He wished they hadn't left it at that.

"No magic," said Lance. She looked at him, narrowed her eyes as she tried to figure him out. He was glad that she couldn't. She shrugged, trying to play it off like she wasn't bothered. She was.

"Are you sure?" she asked, raising her hand. It glowed with the power of her Dalish healing magic. "That scar – your voice. Magic could-"

He slapped her hand away, draining her of mana in the process. The experience was traumatic for mages, and Lance wished he'd toned it down some. She fell to her knees, holding her throat and gasping as though he'd sucked the breath right out of her.

And he might have; he had no idea what it was like.

"Sorry," he said, reaching down to her help her up. She pushed him away.

"What's wrong with you?" she demanded, taking several steps back. "You… Do you think this is cute? Do you think we're here just for your benefit?"

He grimaced. He knew this was coming, sooner or later. Everyone had been getting on his bad side lately, and he'd been snapping at them more than he meant to.

"Do you think _I'm_ here just for your benefit?" she asked. And he cocked his head, inquisitive. She nodded to him, pursing her lips in a very irritated manner. It was so like her, and so cute to see. "I've seen you look at me, I know what you want! You _shemlen_ are all alike, you think we're here just for your amusement, to be your play things."

She stabbed a finger at him, poking him hard in the chest. She put one hand on her hip, scolding him like an errant child. It was her way to be so condescending. But it was just so damned cute, the way she tilted her head, the loose strands of hair in her face. She was pretty, there was no way he could deny that, and she pissed him off just the right way. She was just so damn like _her…_

And he reached out, took her cheeks in his hands, making sure to keep his Templar powers in check. That was difficult for him, around these mages, these apostates. He wanted so much to rid them of their magic, to leave them as defenseless and useless as they left everyone else. But that wasn't rational, was it? That wasn't right.

She stopped yelling, stopped scolding. Something played across her features, something nice to see. Was it understanding? Respect? No, that had been there since they first met, when he hacked down those damn Sylvan she liked to summon.

And she reached out, her hands on his shoulder, and she leaned forward, lips parted slightly, head inclined. He knew what came next, what was expected of him. And maybe he wanted to. Maybe he wanted to close his eyes for a moment, picture black hair, pale skin, golden eyes. Maybe he would convince himself that he wasn't here, that she wasn't her.

But he couldn't. The very thought burned his throat, made his scar throb with pain.

And he stopped, gently pushed her aside. She cleared her throat, stepped away from him.

"I… That wasn't… You aren't special," she said, and stormed off. She was headed in the direction of the trees growing alongside the Keep's granite walls. It was a place she liked to be, and had become hers. She tended the gardens, kept them in check. No one bothered her there. Lance watched her leave.

He wanted to follow her, to tell her that he was sorry, to explain himself fully. Perhaps he hoped that she could really heal him, not just get rid of the scars. Perhaps he wanted to try being with her, see if it made life any easier.

But he found himself standing, staring into the distance. Several soldiers passed him, trying to judge if he was okay. He brushed them all off, went after Velanna.

She had grown hedges in the small garden, using her Dalish magic. It was a strange thing to see. She had demonstrated her abilities to control nature upon their first meeting, causing the trees to move and attack him. He'd forgiven her for that since, and had made a promise to help her find her sister.

But all that had fallen through when they encountered the Architect. He still fumed at the thought of that creature. He had infected Velanna's sister with the Darkspawn Taint, had corrupted her irrevocably. And he had been responsible for corrupting Urthemiel.

Lance felt so helpless to think about that. The Archdemon, the creature, he hated it. But he never would have met _her_. He felt so sick, so pathetic.

And he had ripped the Architect to shreds, nearly barehanded. He'd had to convince Velanna that her sister was lost, that she could not be helped. And there were times that he thought she hated him.

But then there were times like this, when he was following after her, trying not to feel anything.

He felt so stupid, so foolish. This wasn't him, he didn't want this, he didn't want her. He just wanted to feel something again. He wanted to feel like he had something.

When he had nothing.

She was sitting in front of a tree; some sort of special Dalish tree, doing what he assumed was their equivalent of praying. He was noisy, and she heard him coming before he even realized that he was there.

She looked over her shoulder at him, wondered what he wanted with her.

He stared back, unable to bring himself to speak. And then he was walking away, stumbling back to the Keep. He was aware of her following him.

He made it all the way to his chambers before she spoke to him, and he found it hard to sit tight and listen. He wanted to shut her up, to make her stop speaking. But he wanted to listen to her, have her listen to him.

"You are not alone," she said. He turned to face her, hand still on his door. He frowned. Once again he was unable to speak.

She reached out to him; put a hand on his chest. It was warm, and he'd almost forgotten the feeling. He held her hand. She brought it up to his face; put a finger on the scar just below his jaw, where no stubble grew.

Her smile was strange to him, something he never got to see very often. She was looking at him in that deep manner she often did. She was trying to see something deep within him. And maybe she could. Maybe that was part of her magic.

And he was clumsy as he kissed her. It had been so long since he'd been able to do such a thing.

But she was patient, and warm. She returned the kiss, put her arms about him.

Her Dalish fellows wouldn't have believed it. They would have insisted that this was not Velanna, that this was some imposter. There was no possible way that she could go from seeking war with the _shemlen_ to kissing one.

And there was no way she was leading the way into his room, holding his hand tightly. There was no way she was asking him to come to bed with her, to spend the rest of the day with her.

And there was no way that he would do it.

He thought of a different night, a different woman. A time when he had been happy - actually happy. He thought of the woman he loved, the one he tried not to dream of. And he was stumbling away from Velanna, collapsing to the ground, hands holding his head to keep himself sane.

"Go," he said. "Leave me."

And Velanna shook her head, kneeling beside him.

"I will not," she said. And she put her hands on his shoulder. "Talk to me. Please."

He was unused to niceties from her, unused to honest questions. She was so strange, yet so familiar. And he longed for her, even as he despised her.

He sobbed, the first time in a long while. He felt tears, the exact same tears he'd promised he'd never shed again.

"Commander. Lance," she said, leaning close. "Tell me."

He looked up. Sighed. And he grit his teeth, fighting back each word as he spoke.

"There was a woman," he said. And she nodded. "I love her."

And she put her arms around him. He felt the warm rumble of her magic, and felt a little more at ease because of it. He wanted to spill his guts to her, to tell her everything. It felt so good to finally say it to someone, anyone.

But he wouldn't get the chance. There was a knock at the door, a runner from below.

"Warden Commander? There are guests in the main hall. Important ones."

Lance looked up at Velanna, genuinely grateful for her. He kissed her forehead.

"He's coming," she said, and giggled a bit at the thought. What rumors would spread now? The Warden and his Dalish mistress?

"Thank you," he whispered. "Can we talk later?"

She nodded. "I would like that."

"Thank you."

They both realized that it was the most he had ever said to her at once. And now that she knew why, she was glad to be with him. Whatever attraction they shared, whatever she suspected about him, perhaps it would finally come to fruition. Or perhaps he would keep her at arm's length.

Whatever happened, she would be glad to say that she was there for him.

He stood, wiped his eyes. She straightened him up. She did her best to make him look as though he hadn't been kissing her and hadn't been on the verge of a real breakdown. He was the Arl of Amaranthine now.

And she laughed again at the thought of human nobles. What a world!


	5. Chapter 5

Lance looked like he might have been the Warden Commander of Ferelden. Or at least he hoped so.

He and Velanna walked down to the main hall of the Keep, with her crossing her arms in that same pose of irritation she wore near constantly. He frowned to himself, feeling very guilty for having kissed her, for having let it go that far.

Maybe it was irrational, he didn't know, but it wasn't like he was behaving very rationally anyways.

As it was there was a bottle of rum in his dresser that he was eager to crack open. And he sighed as he descended the stone steps to the hall. Whatever guests there were, he didn't want to deal with them. It was probably more nobles, come to plead for some sort of special treatment. Or perhaps yet another Bann with a single daughter.

Those were his favorite.

Of course, the local Revered Mother came by from time to time to see to the spiritual health of the soldiers and to remind him that a donation to the Chantry was a civic duty. He hated that.

Perhaps it was his general dislike of the clergy, or the fact that she was practically blackmailing him, but he often found reasons not to be available when she came knocking. Sex with Velanna might have been a half decent excuse.

And again he felt a rush of guilt, wishing he'd never even looked at her.

He entered the quiet hall, made all the more foreboding by the empty silence, and tried to put on his most officious attitude. It was no secret that he hated meeting other people, so he didn't often do so. And the people were by and large glad to not meet him.

The "important" visitors weren't recognizable to him. They weren't dressed at all like he would expect anyone of import to be. In fact, they were dressed in traveling leathers not unlike his own. Four of them, all with a professional bearing about them. If he had to guess, he would say soldiers, but they sure didn't look like any soldiers he'd ever seen.

The man that appeared to be their leader wore a cloak with hood drawn up to obscure his features. From what little of the man Lance could see, he looked to be quite a muscular character. Lance cleared his throat, getting the men's attention.

"Hello," he said, hearing his own grating voice echo off the walls. He hated it. "I am-"

"Lance Cousland, son of Teyrn Bryce Cousland and Teyrna Eleanor Cousland. Arl of Amaranthine, Warden Commander, and Hero of Ferelden," said their cloaked leader. He had an accent that Lance couldn't place. Perhaps from the Anderfels. "Just to name a few titles."

"Who are you?" Lance asked. The man reached up to remove his hood, revealing a face marred by several scars and a firm jaw. He looked like a figure of import now.

"I am First Warden Ezekiel Ashburn," he said. "And I do not like having to come here."

"First Warden," Lance said, embarrassed for not recognizing the leader of his Order. He'd never met the First Warden, nor had a chance to actually learn the name, but he was aware that the First Warden had certain interests in the Arling of Amaranthine. "Had I known-"

"Save it. I am not here for honor guards or luxuries," he said. "I am here for one reason only: to handle this massive sodding mess you've made of things."

Lance stood rigid. This was hardly what he expected. Not only was it a shock to be facing the First Warden in such a manner, but to be accused of making a "mess" when everyone else had hailed him as a hero?

"Shall I count the ways?" the First Warden asked, voice rising in volume. It echoed loudly off of the walls and the high ceiling and served to make Lance feel even more inferior than he already did. "The King of Ferelden is a Grey Warden. I might remind you that the Wardens are politically neutral. As far as that goes, you are the Arl of Amaranthine! And your brother is the Teyrn of Highever! Why, one might go so far as to say that the Wardens control Ferelden."

Lance felt his jaw tense. That was true. The Wardens were supposed to be politically neutral, and as a Warden Lance was supposed to have relinquished any political title he might have held. But that didn't change the fact that he was thought of highly both for his lineage and for his deeds. Certainly he had no intention of being anything more than a Warden, but he could at least see the implications.

"For Maker's sake," said the First Warden, walking from one side of the hall to the other, examining the tapestries that hung there. "You are responsible for choosing the King in Orzammar, or so I'm told. Do you realize what you've done? The Wardens aren't exactly welcome in most countries, not while the Blight's defeated. No, it takes thousands of Darkspawn to bring us back into the good graces of the Kings and Queens of the land. What do you think is going to happen in the next few decades?"

Lance remained quiet. It was a rhetorical question. He didn't much appreciate being spoken to in this manner, though, and his hands curled into fists.

"You've set the image of the Grey Wardens back into the veil of secrecy and suspicion. What will happen when the good King reveals one too many secrets of the sort we can't let loose? What happens when he is unable to provide an heir?"

The First Warden turned on them, looking quite angered. Lance didn't dare glance back at Velanna, though he couldn't quite place the source of his fear. He was shamed, that was certain. The First Warden was right. They had made quite a mess here. And perhaps abroad, say in Nevarra or Antiva – places untouched by the Blight – there was less tolerance for the Wardens because of him.

He swallowed.

"But of course, that all leads me to the question we are all wondering. Poor Riordan died during the battle – thank you for returning his remains to his family – leaving only two Grey Wardens left in Ferelden. And against all odds, they slew the Archdemon," he began to clap, loudly, ironically. His face betrayed all the disdain he had for the Hero of Ferelden at the moment.

"So, I ask you," said the First Warden, his mouth curling into a snarl. "Why, in Andraste's good name, _are you alive?_"

The room was suddenly bone-chillingly cold. Lance felt his face go white, his stomach fall into his knees. He would have done anything to leave that room. And he felt all eyes on him. And he felt like vomiting.

'_Tis a Ritual, performed on the eve of battle…_

"Ser-"

The First Warden held up a hand, silencing him. He shook his head, not wanting to hear any sort of explanation.

"Let me hazard a guess… Perhaps. There was a woman. Black hair. Pale skin. Golden eyes."

Lance's eyes widened and he felt as though his knees might give out. He was shaking, he realized too late. And he looked over his shoulder, at Velanna. And she stared at him, eyes as wide as his, hand shaking slightly.

He didn't want her to hear this.

And then the First Warden said something, the best news Lance had ever heard.

"Perhaps she was seen in Orlais."

And Lance took a step forward, meeting the First Warden face-to-face.

"Ser, please allow me the chance-"

The First Warden held his hand up again.

"Yes," he said. "All in due time. If I'm going to let you live – which is a hard decision to make – then I should at the very least allow you to correct this mistake."

Lance nodded. He felt some of the warmth return to his face, energy renewed. He still wanted to polish off that rum in his room, but things were looking up. He had his chance; finally, he had his chance…

"You leave tomorrow," said the First Warden. He gestured to his three companions. "These will be your… escorts. They will brief you on the situation and handle it accordingly. You may be the Warden Commander of Ferelden, but you _will_ answer to these men."

"Ser. Yes, ser," said Lance. And he asked, "Ser, what-"

"If this mission fails," said the First Warden, looking deadly serious. "If you are unsuccessful. Then you will be a Warden no longer. And I will be there to watch you enter the Deep Roads."

Lance swallowed, then nodded. He understood. But he didn't. How did the First Warden know this? How had he… never mind that. Lance decided that he didn't care how, why. He only cared that he now had his chance. She was in Orlais, and he would find her. And she would come home with him, no matter what.

"I will take my leave now," said the First Warden. "I tire of this country. It smells like wet dog."

Lance stood, facing the three Wardens that were to be his "escort". His guards, he realized. One of them stepped forward, carrying a stack of papers. He thrust it towards Lance, smiled.

"Perhaps you would like to study these. In your chambers," he said with a thick Orlesian accent. It wasn't a suggestion, Lance realized. And he nodded. And turned on his heel and headed for his chambers, brushing past Velanna who was watching him with a mix of emotions.

_I'm coming, Morrigan._


	6. Chapter 6

He sat at his writing desk, poring over the papers. The sun had set hours ago. He was reading by sparse candlelight.

Whatever sources the First Warden had, however he heard about this, the man was thorough. The papers detailed almost everything; her appearance, her abilities, her status in the Orlesian court. Of course she would go there, where else would Morrigan be found? He felt so stupid now.

He always meant to search after her, but he could not even fathom where to begin looking, not with Flemeth gone.

He scanned through another page, this one detailing the account of her arrival in Orlais. She had been heavy with child, and that made Lance sigh. The child. _His_ child. As a Grey Warden, it might be the only child he'd ever have. And the poor babe was a month old already.

He longed for Morrigan now, more intensely than he ever had. He remembered their last night together, remembered the Ritual, the one that had torn him apart. And he was so sorry for it. He hated himself for it. He hated everyone else for it. He… should be dead, he knew. He was _supposed_ to be dead. He should be in Weisshaupt Fortress, laying on a cold slab next to four other dead guys.

He shouldn't be alive. He was… a monster.

And he missed her so much. _So much_. And there was nothing he could do for it, until now. This was his chance. He would right every wrong, make everything whole again. At least he hoped.

There were doubts at times. He wondered if she'd moved on, if she had another. Sometimes he wondered if she had ever loved him, or if it had all been a trick to get him to accept the Ritual. And then he wondered what nefarious schemes she could have. It drove him mad to think of it.

But that was behind him now. One way or the other, he was going to see her again.

He remembered happier times, too. He remembered their nights together, at camp. It was twisted irony that the happiest moments in his life came at the death of thousands. But he wished desperately to go back. He wanted to be with her again, to hold her, kiss her.

And he felt even guiltier for even looking at Velanna in that way.

He sighed, leaned back in his chair. He was a torrent of emotion. There was hope and anxiety. Fear and resolve. He was afraid for her, but glad that they would be together again. She had told him not to follow her, but she couldn't have expected him to stay put, could she?

There was no point in living without her. And he wouldn't.

He felt something in his pocket, and he reached in to get it. The letter that Velanna had brought to him. By special courier, she said. It had that funny seal, and that expensive vellum.

There was a knock at the door and he set the letter down with another sigh.

"Enter," he said, his voice scratchy and ruining his mood. The door opened, and he caught a glimpse of the Orlesian standing guard as Velanna entered.

"Commander," she said with a scowl. He turned in his chair, arms crossed.

He raised an eyebrow, questioning her. She shrugged and hooked a thumb over her shoulder at the door.

"I told the _shem_ that I was coming to bed," said Velanna. She looked away, a bit embarrassed at her own words. "I… hoped that it was not a lie."

Lance frowned. She caught on, and nodded.

"I am sorry, Commander. That was inappropriate."

He nodded. Yet it felt so… good. Maybe it was just the knowledge that there was a pretty young lady that found him desirable, but even though he couldn't stop bringing his mind back to Morrigan, he found himself wanting to take her to bed.

Perhaps it was just the fact there was a willing young female in his chambers.

He nodded to her, gesturing for her to take a seat at the foot of his bed and speak. She did so.

"I said I would talk to you…" she said. And she let her eyes wander, looked at his armor, his books. That was all there was to look at. "The woman. The one you love. It's her, isn't it."

She pointed at the papers sitting on his desk. Lance nodded.

Velanna scowled at him, looking quite furious. She was sexy that way.

"What did you do?" she said, her voice sounding as though she had already made up her mind about him. Lance shrugged. This would be one hell of a story and he wasn't too keen on sharing. But perhaps she deserved to know.

"I love her," he said again. And she nodded. "You don't understand. I love her. Absolutely. I would – I _will_ do anything for her."

"You did something stupid," she said. "You're supposed to be dead, and you did something stupid."

Lance nodded, rested his hand on his chin.

He was lost in thought, trying to find words to say. What was there to say? He never thought he would need to relate this story. But he wanted to. He wanted to tell her, to tell the world. He just wanted to feel like he wasn't totally alone.

So he spoke finally, breaking the silence but refusing to look at her.

"You think the Dalish have it bad," he said. "There are dark depths of the human soul. Things you can only imagine. There are things you would do, for someone. For anyone. I love her."

He looked at her finally, narrowing his eyes. "I made a mistake. I will not make another."

And she nodded, understanding. And he realized the attraction, then. They were alike, he and her. They were kindred spirits. He loved Morrigan, no question. But she was just as worthy of affection, and perhaps it would have made more sense.

And then he remembered the look on Morrigan's face, that last night. He remembered how cold he felt. He remembered the guilt on her features, the pain in his heart.

"I remember," he said to himself. And Velanna was suddenly before him, her lips pressed to his.

"I respect you, Commander," she said. "That's more than I could say of any human."

And he put his hands around her, stood with her. They took two steps to the bed, and he was lying beside her, kissing her. He thought of Morrigan, and he felt worthless. He loved her so much. He was so alone. This woman, this warm, wonderful woman…

Yet he found himself kissing her neck, shoulder, reaching up her slender body, pulling up the hem of her robe.

And all at once he was remembering Morrigan, their first night together, the way she had looked at him, her eyes longing, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

So he stopped, and he pulled away from Velanna, trying not to look her in the eye.

"What?" she asked, sitting up and trying to get his attention. "What is it?"

"I can't," he said. And he looked away from her. She sighed, and put one hand on his shoulder.

"I am sorry, Commander," she said. "I should have… I know you still love her. That was stupid of me."

"Don't," he said, holding up a finger to silence her. "Don't say that."

"I like you," she said, and her hand was rubbing his shoulder tenderly. He nodded, and slipped his arm around her waist.

"I… like _you_," he said, and frowned. He sounded so gruff, so coarse. It wasn't him; it wasn't how he was supposed to sound. She saw him frown, and she put her hand against his throat.

"Let me heal you," she said, and she leaned closer to him. She shifted, put a leg around him so that she straddled him. He liked the feeling, and his hands were on her back. "I can heal that scar."

"No," he said. "Don't."

She nodded to him, and let her head drop close to his. Her breath was warm on his neck. He couldn't help himself.

He kissed her again, and it was torture. He tried to rationalize, tell himself that it wasn't fair he had to be alone so long; it wasn't fair that she left him. He deserved something, didn't he?

_I love you._

"Stop," he said. And he gave her a light push. She put her finger to his lips.

"Shh," she whispered. "They're listening."

"Please."

"I told them I would stay the night."

"Stop it."

She looked about, realized where she was and what she was doing. She stood up abruptly. She ran a hand through her hair and sighed aloud.

"I shouldn't have done that," she said. "I am sorry. I'll leave."

Lance reached out, grabbed her wrist.

"Wait."

He said, and pointed to his ear, and to the door. She nodded. The Wardens probably were listening and would suspect something if she were to leave so suddenly. And she sat next to him on the bed, folded her hands in her lap.

"I suppose I should sleep on the floor," she said. And she looked at him. He shook his head, pat the bed beside him.

He stood, walked over to the single candle that lit the room with a dim, flickering light. He blew it out so that the only light was the thin moonlight coming in through the window. It was hard to see, but they were both accustomed to long, dark nights with little light to see by. They got along just fine.

Velanna pulled back the covers on the bed, slipping into it. There was a brief rustle and she discarded her clothing on the floor. She was unused to an actual bed to sleep on, and every night at Vigil's Keep seemed a great luxury to her. She worried about getting soft, about losing touch with her Dalish roots.

She wondered now if that would be so bad. The Elves had already lost so much, and the Dalish only carried the barest remnants of their ancient culture. Perhaps her loss wouldn't be so bad. She could become a flat-ear, live in Vigil's Keep for eternity, and forget that she had come from forest dwelling people that now shunned her.

There was a slight noise on the floor near the bed, Lance removing his shoes and setting them aside. He was lying on the floor.

"You know," she said, in a whisper that filled the room anyways. "There's plenty of room on the bed."

She heard the subtle click of his teeth as his jaw tightened in tension. He was a strange man like that.

"I will keep my hands to myself," she said. "It would be more comfortable than that floor."

There was a moment of silence, hesitation. She wondered if the Commander would require more cajoling to sleep in his own bed. And then she sense him standing, felt his weight on the bed as he sat down, awkwardly at first. And then he settled beside her, hands on his stomach in a very officious manner.

He sat upright again, just long enough to discard his shirt. And then his trousers. There was another nervous moment as he slipped under his own blankets, nervous about any physical contact that might occur between them.

"I'm sorry," she said again. And felt an ounce of longing for the man. She wished she could reach over, end his heartache with kisses and caresses and every bit of affection she was capable of giving to him. In all honesty, she couldn't remember the last time she had been with a man.

She was always an outcast in her clan, her hatred of humans causing her to be set apart from the others. She had been kicked out for it, and she had drug her sister into this whole mess. It made her sad. She cared about hating humans so much, she couldn't remember a time when she was genuinely happy.

Murdering those traders in the woods hadn't made her feel any better about it. She thought they deserved it, and convinced herself that whatever death she could inflict on them was worth it, but… now she could only think of herself as a murderer, thanks to that insufferable Justice spirit. The thing had hounded to her make amends with the humans for what she had done. She supposed she missed it, too. He had died defending the Keep while she and the Warden were defending Amaranthine.

And she turned to regard him, barely able to make out the shape of his sleeping form in the low moonlight. His chest rose and fell with every breath, and even in sleep he seemed troubled.

He was such a tense, severe man. She pitied him sometimes. And she remembered with some embarrassment their first meeting.

She had tried to kill him, was convinced that he was some mercenary come to exact revenge for her killing the merchants. He was so… scary. He had fought his way through her Sylvan, right up to her. And she had been so willing to fight him.

The way he had drained her mana, and then told her to stop it. He was so commanding, had an inspiring presence even while he was brooding.

She had demanded that he recruit her into the Wardens, so that she could sense her sister. He had looked at her seriously, and said, "You might die."

She told him she didn't care. And she hadn't. She was glad. She never would have gotten the chance to feel this way about anyone again had he left her in the woods.

And that made her smile to herself, something else she couldn't remember ever doing. Here she was, the mean, warrior-witch of the Dalish, turned into a giggling love-struck little girl. It was so… well, sort of deserved.

It was a great game being played by the Creators, no doubt. She hated the _shemlen_ all her life; of course she would end up in a _shemlen_ bed with a _shemlen_ man and barely able to keep her hands off him. Perhaps it was aided by the fact that he was very different from every other _shemlen_ she'd ever met.

Well, maybe not so different from Nathaniel, who liked to brood about as much as he did.

That was something else curious about the Commander; he let Nathaniel Howe become a Warden. The son of the man that killed his entire family was now a subordinate. And furthermore, the Commander showed no animosity to the man. He had even ordered that the statue of his granduncle be replaced in Amaranthine.

He was such a man of contradictions. She guessed that there was a good, strong heart to him, and the fact that he was so torn up about a past love – current love – reinforced that. She hadn't met this girl, but she was quite jealous of her.

She must have been something to win this man, to make this man. And she was also angry that this woman had hurt him so. She gathered that much, at least.

Quietly, Velanna reached out, tapped him with one finger to see if he was sleeping. He didn't stir, so she presumed that he was.

She reached out carefully, wary of waking him. And she put a hand on his chest, touched the mass of scars there. He had seen many battles, and she had fought quite a few alongside him. She could feel some of them now, the scars that had been won alongside her. She had a few of her own, though he had more often than not protected her from harm.

She licked her lips in quiet anticipation and moved a little closer to him. Her heart thundered in her chest and she was afraid that it might wake him.

And then he twitched.

He was dreaming she realized, and calmed. He was whispering in his sleep, finger twitching madly. He didn't often go to sleep without drinking a barrel of ale first. She hated the stuff. Maybe now she knew why he did.

She leaned a bit closer, trying to hear what he was whispering.

A name?

"Morrigan."

And she could see that his jaw was tense, clenched tightly. A few tears were sliding from his eyes. She gently wiped those away.

And she turned on her side, put her bare back to him, felt his warmth. And he rolled over, instinctively putting an arm around her and putting himself close to her. He was near her, face buried in her hair, nuzzling her gently.

"Hey," he whispered sleepily. "I missed you."

And he kissed her shoulders, rubbed her arm tenderly before settling back into sleep.

She felt guilty doing so, but she imagined for a moment that it truly was for her. And she let one hand sink between her legs.


	7. Chapter 7

There were certain anatomical functions of the male body that occurred in the early morning that he most sincerely didn't want her to see, so he made it a point to wake up well before she did. Of course, he was torn between shock and bemusement when he woke to find himself cuddled closely to her.

He seemed to have a vague memory of it, though the particulars escaped him. It made sense, though. A warm female body in the bed next to him, why wouldn't he? She seemed to have enjoyed it, if the small smile on her face was any indicator.

A part of him didn't want to leave. It was so cozy, so nice. But it was phony. It wasn't real, not for him. As much as he liked Velanna, as much as he wished to stay there for the rest of eternity, he could not.

It was difficult to free his arm without waking her. She had curled up so close to him, had taken possession of it while she slept. He managed, though, and she made a small whining noise as he sat up. It was cute.

He leaned over to gather up his clothes, discarded in the night. He couldn't sleep clothed, not comfortably anyway.

There was a hand at his back, fingertips running along his spine. He looked back at Velanna, who lay there, watching. She seemed a little curious, perhaps gauging the situation. Perhaps hopeful that the morning had changed his mind about them.

It hadn't, however tempting a roll with her was.

He looked at her and saw Morrigan, saw her disapproving glare. He was probably seeing ghosts, but it still kept him in check.

And it made him very… sad. He felt a tugging at his heart, a sense of longing. He wanted to sit there in bed for a long while and do nothing. But then he was very aware of Velanna watching him and decided that it was in his best interest not to stay in bed.

So he pulled on his trousers and stood up.

"Leaving," he said. And he looked at her. She moved, tried to sit up, to reach out for her own clothes. Lance held up a hand to stall her. "Stay."

She nodded, and lay back. The other Wardens would certainly wonder why it was that Velanna had not slept in her bed that night, but would just chalk it up to some Dalish… thing.

There was a knock on the door, the Orlesian Warden.

Lance opened the door a crack, enough to look at the man. He was young, younger than Lance. He had a prim and proper military bearing, probably once a Chevalier.

His name was Saul, or so Lance had been led to believe. He smiled pleasantly, trying to appear as a brother, and not a captor.

"We will leave soon," he said, thick accent reminding Lance why it was Fereldans hated Orlais. "No time for breakfast; we will take our meal on the road. Please get ready. And no weapons."

Lance nodded, scowled as he saw the man try to get a glimpse of Velanna over his shoulder. Lance pushed the door shut, hearing the man take several steps back to keep from having the door shut on him.

Lance looked back at her, saw that she was quite amused by it.

"Humans are all the same," she said, smiling. He frowned, not exactly thrilled to be compared to the Orlesian. Whatever.

He sighed and reached down to gather up a few possessions to take with him. Clothes, and some parchment. There was little else to take.

He shoved it all in a backpack that he kept stashed under his bed, the same pack that had seen him through his travels so long ago. He'd thought he would never need it again. Funny how life could screw you over like that.

He gave Velanna a last look, grimacing to her. She gave him a small, comforting smile.

"Good luck," she said. "I hope she is… everything you hope she is."

"Thanks."

And he stepped out, Saul keeping right behind him. The other two Wardens, a big man named Krueger and a skinnier gentleman named Rand, waited outside by what Lance assumed to be a carriage. It was Orlesian, and had probably been brought by Saul on his way from Orlais. A few of the Keep's soldiers watched him enter the rickety wooden contraption, wondering where he was headed.

Word had gotten out, no doubt, that the Commander was being given an ultimatum by the First Warden. Many of the troops were fiercely loyal to him, as were the nobles and citizenry of Amaranthine. His reputation was a great one.

However, where he was going, he had no friends.

They traveled slowly, Rand and Krueger eating loaves of bread loudly. The sun was still very low, barely peeking over the horizon.

"So you know," said Rand. "I'm calling the shots. Saul here is to stay on your ass at all times."

Lance nodded. He was sandwiched between Saul and Krueger, likely to keep him from being able to move.

"Don't suppose you care to share your relationship with this woman?" asked Rand, smacking his lips. Lance stared at him, narrowed his eyes. Rand shrugged. "Just as well."

"To my understanding," said Saul. "This Warden is supposed to be… 'romantically involved' with the girl."

They all exchanged grins, except for Lance, who sat quietly, impassively.

"You know it could be worse, I hope," said Rand at last. "The First Warden could have had you quietly 'taken care of'. At least this way you get to keep some honor."

"To be honest," said Saul. "I'm not too sure I like the idea of doing this. All things considered, Warden Commander, you are a hero. A dumb one, but a hero nonetheless."

Rand laughed at that. He didn't speak again for several hours, thankfully. Lance was busy calculating, taking measures. It was a good two weeks journey on foot from Amaranthine to Orlais, less by horse. They would have to make a few stops to sleep, to change horses. Possibly take on supplies. It would be a long trip indeed stuffed into that carriage.

"Here's the deal," said Rand. "This is going to be a little high profile. We would have had the Wardens in Orlais handle this, but…"

"But the girl is deep in the Empress' court," said Saul. "Very deep. We couldn't do this without risking the entire Order."

"So this is going to be a smash and grab," said Rand. "We go in, get the girl, get out."

Lance nodded. It was how he would prefer it. He'd just have to make sure that he was the one to get the girl.

"Naturally, you'll be the one to put yourself in harm's way."

He nodded again.

"The Empress has her Chevaliers practically policing the Empire now," said Rand. Saul cut in.

"Meaning that there will be few at the palace. She's made up for it by filling Val Royeaux with mercenaries. Real nasty bunch."

"Don't bother preserving their lives," said Rand. "They picked a dangerous occupation."

"We can't mingle with the Orlesian Wardens, either," said Rand. "This one has to be – what's the word? – under the covers."

"Undercover," Krueger corrected. Lance looked up at him, saw only a glare. He welcomed it.

"Once we have the girl," said Rand. "We meet up with a team of Templars already waiting for us, and go home."

Lance swallowed. Hard.

"Templars."

"Yes," said Rand. "Templars. She's an apostate mage; they'll do the job for us."

"We clean up the mess," said Saul. "Leave nothing left to say it happened. Worst case scenario, the Empress is accused of harboring apostates and loses a few popularity points."

"More importantly," said Rand. "This mess – that _you_ made – will be nice and tidy and no one speaks of this again."

Lance nodded. Templars.

Apostates.

Executions.

He remembered Morrigan's tales of the Templars that would chase after her and Flemeth. He remembered her tales of killing them. These Templars, with an apostate witch, accused of murdering other Templars. Pyres would be erected.

There were no trials for apostates. No mercy.

That was why Morrigan lived on the fringe, why she had always been so cold. And he had chipped away at that, made a dent. He was happier with her. She was happier with him.

And now he was sent to kill her. He was an assassin.

And the Templars were just the weapon.

He had a brief moment of vertigo, motion sickness. He remembered Morrigan, her smiling face, looking up at him in a dark tent. He remembered the way she had sworn that he would find nothing of her to love, the way he had loved her even as she said it.

He remembered her soft kisses, the nights they spent together. He remembered loving her, with all his heart.

A year of loneliness, of not knowing.

A dragon in the Korcari Wilds.

_Like dragons they savage, fearsome pretty things._

A promise, made in despair.

_And you keep your promises?_

A promise made in the dark.

_Whatever happens, you will not die._

His own frustrated anger.

_I would want you to live._

That cold, calculated rage.

_I love you._

That build-up of hatred.

_You will never know peace._

And a hollow determination. A calculating need.

_If someone betrays you, they should always wake expecting your blade._

And then he felt nothing.

Lance looked up at Rand, frowned.

"If you had to do something terrible," said Lance. "To save someone you love. Would you do it?"

Rand wrinkled his forehead at this. And then he nodded.

"Sure."

"Me, too," Lance said.

Now he knew what he had to do.

He slammed his head left, connected it with Krueger's, knocking him against the wall of the carriage and putting him out cold. Rand shouted, found a boot in his face while Saul was put in a choke hold.

It took only a few seconds before everyone but Lance was unconscious.

And he leapt from the carriage, the man driving having no idea, humming to himself.

Morrigan was going to die without him. And he would not let that happen.

He ran full speed back to the Keep.

He would need weapons. Because by the time he was done, there was going to be a lot of dead bodies.


	8. Chapter 8

"You are insane," Velanna said, trying not to break something in frustration. Lance nodded.

He was rifling through the armory, gathering up equipment. He had a pair of shortblades, the type to be carried on your back. They were light, fast, just the thing he needed to carry. He was looking for a proper set of leathers, something to keep him light for travel.

"I can't let you do this, Commander," she said. Lance didn't pay attention to her. He was grabbing what supplies he could find, trying to guess what he would need.

He had to hurry. By the time the Wardens came to, they would know exactly where he was. He had the advantage, though, whether or not they knew it.

Velanna grabbed him roughly, tried to get him to face her.

"What are you doing? They will _kill you_."

And he looked her in the eye, his determination apparent.

And she gasped to herself.

"That's it, isn't it? You want them to kill you. You think if they kill you then everything will be better, you'll be redeemed."

He hesitated, cleared his throat. How could he word this to her? How could he tell her what he was thinking, how he felt?

"I'm hoping," he said, feeling again the disdain he had for himself, the sound of his voice echoing his weakness, his foolishness. "I'm hoping that I can save her."

Velanna, squeezed his arm tighter, closed her eyes. And she nodded.

"I'm going with you," she said. Lance balked. He wanted to tell her no, to tell her that this was something he had to do himself. But he didn't.

"Let's go," he said. She turned to gather her own things. She held her staff tightly, the twisted heartwood. She hesitated a moment, seeing the cold determination in his eyes.

And she kissed him, quickly, before he could react.

He sighed, nodded to her, and left to get a few more things from his room.

She watched him go, praying that the Creators would guide his steps, that he would not falter. Because where they were going, she knew, they wouldn't be coming back.

He rifled through the drawer of his writing desk, searching for the pendant he had been given so many months ago, when he was first made a Grey Warden. The Warden's Oath.

He found it, held it so that the silver chain dangled between his fingers.

He hadn't worn it in so long. He had replaced it with the silver amulet given to him by the spirit of his father in that temple in the Frostback Mountains. But he couldn't wear it now.

He looked at the reflective surface, the familiar face that smiled at him. And he let it fall into the drawer.

"Sorry," he said. "Can't bring you there. Can't let you see what I'm about to do."

And he put the Warden's Oath around his neck, held it up to examine the swirling liquid, the sample of his Joining cocktail. The Archdemon's blood, the lyrium. It made him stronger, he thought. It gave him that ounce of strength necessary to go on.

And he stepped out into the hall, saw Velanna waiting for him.

"Are you ready?" she asked. He nodded to her. And she took a breath.

They stepped out of the Keep, soldiers watching them go. They didn't tell the other Wardens, didn't need them following. This was something to keep private.

But there was someone at the gate, waiting nervously. A woman, familiar. Her dark hair, the strong stature.

"Ser Cauthrien," said Lance, folding his arms as he approached her. She tried to smile, nervous.

"Hello, Warden Commander. Arl."

Lance tilted his head, waiting for her to speak. She looked very uneasy.

"I… are you recruiting?" she asked. "I want to join the Wardens."

He narrowed his eyes at her. The last time they met, they'd scuffled in the streets of Denerim. She hadn't exactly been a Warden sympathizer. In fact, she all but idolized Loghain and had begged him to show forgiveness to the man.

"Please," she said. She looked around, as though she didn't know what to say exactly. She wore her armor, a relic from her time as a real knight. She had since left the service, shamed for Loghain's actions. And here she was, standing rigid before the Warden Commander, begging to be let into the Order.

She reached out, took his hand, and bowed before him.

"I know that it must sound crazy," she said. "But I want to be a Grey Warden. I want to redeem myself."

"Could kill you," said Lance. She nodded.

"I am willing to take that risk."

"Go inside. Talk to the Dwarf," Lance said, and pushed past her. She grabbed his arm, pulled him so that he would face her.

"Where are you going?" she asked, eyeing his leather traveling armor, the blades at his back, the pack. It was obvious that he was headed somewhere, and she was eager to find out where.

"Don't," he warned. Velanna stepped forward.

"If you truly wish to be a Grey Warden, then go inside the Keep. You will be looked after there. But we have no time for you. We are leaving."

"Let me come," Cauthrien said. "Please, Commander."

He gaped at her.

"No."

She grit her teeth, obviously feeling quite haggard. And she spoke to him earnestly, honestly.

"I want to redeem myself," she said. "I have done so much _wrong_. Please allow me to join you. I will do whatever it takes, just let me prove to you that I am worthy."

Lance sighed. He didn't want to bring her. As it was he was traveling with one too many people. But she was insistent, even going so far as to take a knee.

"Let me pledge my life to you," she said. "Please. I can't put into words how important this is for me."

Lance pulled away, yanking his hand form hers.

"Fine. Just… get up."

And he was more than a little angry that he was now traveling with two women to save a third. It all spoke of… things that he really didn't want to speak of. He glared at the woman of his shoulder.

"You won't regret this, Warden," she said. "I mean, Commander. Ser."

"I will."

Velanna sighed loudly. If she had hoped for a quiet, intimate trip between the two of them, well, no such luck. And she looked quite perturbed for it.

He hurried them down the road and into the wilderness, headed north towards the mountains.

"What's in the mountains?" Cauthrien asked him. Lance snorted at her.

"An old friend," he said simply. And he trudged on. He judged that he had a few hours before those Wardens got the Keep, before they figured out what had happened. By the time they realized he intended to head for Orlais on his own, it would be too late for them.

Even if they got there first, he wasn't about to go on some clandestine mission to capture her. He was going to walk right up to the Empress herself and demand to see the women he loved.

But first, he was going to an old castle, in the mountains.


	9. Chapter 9

Soldier's Peak was cold. It was on top of a mountain, so it was cold all the time. The Drydens were still living there, having fixed the place up nicely. It was almost livable. Levi greeted Lance with a big hug, something that made him quite uncomfortable.

Mikhail Dryden beamed with pride when Lance told him of Starfang's quality as a sword. The smith was glad to be of service, and insisted that it was the very least that could be done for the Warden that had brought his family some measure of peace.

Lance asked Levi if Avernus had been in his tower all this time.

"Aye, he has," said Levi. "I tell the children to keep clear of the tower. As far as I know he's still there."

"Thanks," said Lance, rubbing his throat in irritation. Velanna sighed behind him.

He looked back at her, gave a slight shrug. She nodded and turned to tell Cauthrien that he would be some time.

They might as well get something to eat. Cauthrien was a little hesitant to do so.

"Are you sure you don't need me – us?" she asked. Her eyes were wide, fearful. Lance wondered what she saw in him. He was only a man. The man that had killed her lord. But just a man.

He didn't reply to her, only went ahead to Avernus' tower. The old mage had spent most of two hundred years experimenting on fellow Wardens. Lance thought it was despicable, but when Avernus had challenged him on what he would do to end the Blight, Lance had relented a bit. Now Lance knew what he would do, and he didn't like it.

So he had let Avernus live, under the condition that he seek out methods to help the Wardens – humanely. The mage hadn't liked that, but could only accept his fate, knowing that death was just what he deserved. Two hundred years the man had been cheating death.

Now it was time to collect.

"Ah, Warden," said Avernus, not turning from the large, dusty tome he was writing in. "Or should I say Warden Commander? I sensed your arrival."

Lance grunted in response, striding across his torture chamber with determined ease. He was soon standing behind the man, arms crossed. Avernus put a period on whatever sentence he was scrawling, and turned to regard the Warden.

"Well," he said, looking him up and down. "Well… I suppose the days have been long for you, yes? Yes, they have…"

He was a blood mage, and had… modified his Taint. Whatever he could sense in the Warden Commander, Lance didn't like it.

"Got a new Keep," said Lance. "Amaranthine."

"I know. I couldn't miss such a collection of Wardens in one place. Especially not with such… Characters."

Lance nodded. "Welcome to join us."

"No, thank you. I think I would just stick out, as it were."

Lance nodded again, looking around the dust-choked room. Avernus sat in a chair nearby, unable to stand for very long. The years were catching up to him, it seemed. He did look old, and shriveled. Not to be insulting. It was just very obvious that he was not immortal.

"You came for something," said Avernus. "Perhaps to see my work come to fruition?"

Lance shrugged, leaned on the rotten banister. He didn't really know what to say. He didn't even know if Avernus could help him, but he just needed to try.

"I'm afraid we will both go disappointed," said Avernus. "I came close, several times, but without subjects, without a clear idea… no, it wasn't meant to be."

"Sorry," Lance said. He wasn't, really. Avernus laughed, weak and pitiful.

"Oh, I have had some successes. But perhaps I just sought too high. Perhaps there was no way to get the results I desired."

Lance couldn't help but relate to the man. Sometimes, you just hoped for too much. And before you could realize that you had to settle for what you had, it was gone.

"Hoped to get some help," said Lance. "Personal matter."

He reached into his pocket, fished out Morrigan's Ring. He held it in his hand, reached out to hand to Avernus, but found himself hesitant to part with it. He reminded himself that it was only for a few seconds, just to see if Avernus could do anything with it.

"Oh?" Avernus asked, accepting the ring. He had to tug out from between Lance's fingers. "An enchanted ring? I see… What is her name?"

Lance wrinkled his brow, a little bit taken aback by Avernus' perceptiveness. But he was an ally, a comrade. Perhaps a brother, so Lance let his guard down, just this once.

"Morrigan," Lance answered. Avernus nodded.

"The dark-haired pretty one, right? Yes, I could taste the attraction, even then. Even now."

Lance shifted uncomfortably. He didn't want Avernus "tasting" anything of his. He scowled at the man, ordering him to just handle the ring.

"What was this ring supposed to do?" Avernus asked, examining the grains. It looked very simple to him, nothing like what you would find in Orzammar or at the Circle.

Lance wasn't sure how to answer him, how to word it in a way that wouldn't sound nuts. He didn't want Avernus to know that he was crazy.

"Said, 'twas a link between us," said Lance, frowning to himself. And he was suddenly no longer there, in front of Avernus in an ancient tower. He was in a bedroom in Orzammar, and there was a girl with a golden mirror beside him. "She is linked to me, as much as I to her."

Avernus eyed him curiously, nodded.

"It is old magic," he said. "Very old. This ring… it was not made by any natural magic."

"Flemeth," Lance said, spitting the word like a curse. He felt his fist curl in rage, and wanted to smash the rotten banister to splinters. He restrained himself. Avernus knew the name; it was synonymous with forbidden, cruel magic.

"There is little I could do," said Avernus, handing the ring back. Lance took it, a little disappointed, perhaps having hoped too high.

"Thanks anyway."

Avernus held up one finger, seeing Lance's disappointment.

"There may yet be one thing I can do for you," he said, and reached towards a pile of bottles and phylacteries. He found one, sloshing with liquid. He handed it to Lance, a grin on his face.

Lance took the bottle, eyed it. It was dark glass and so obscured the color of its contents. He didn't dare guess what could be in there, though he was quite a bit afraid about what the answer might be.

"It is the culmination of my research," said Avernus. "It should unlock at least a fraction of the potential of the Taint within you."

"What does it do?" Lance asked. Avernus shrugged.

"No idea. It affects each Warden differently. You might become a superhuman. You might become ravenously hungry. What long-term effects? Can't say," Avernus stood then, shut the tome on his table with a clap and a cloud of dust. "But it will make you more sensitive to magic. At least for a short time."

He frowned and added, "Judging by the whole 'Templar aura' you're working, you could use it."

Lance frowned. This concoction had come at the price of a dozen Grey Wardens, tortured to the point of madness. It was going to make the corruption inside him more powerful. It was going to change him beyond belief.

But it would help him find Morrigan, help him protect her. He would do anything to keep her safe. Anything.

He sighed and slipped it into his pocket. For later. Maybe.

Avernus leaned back against the stone wall of his tower, and surveyed his laboratory. He looked a bit disgusted with himself. But Lance knew that he felt he had only done what he had to. There was a lot of that going around.

"May I ask you a question?" Avernus asked. Lance grunted. "Why come to me?"

"Need this off the books," said Lance. "So to speak."

"I see. You love her, then?"

Lance nodded.

"Yes, that will do it," Avernus said. And he was staring off, distant. "We will do strange things for love, won't we?"

Lance cleared his throat, brought Avernus back to the present. The old blood mage looked at him, smiled sadly.

"You know, I am having the dreams again."

Lance frowned. That was bad, for Avernus. Or maybe it was good, who knew?

"I think," the mage said, turning again to his work. "That I will go to Orzammar soon. Perhaps it is time. I have lived… too long, I think."

Lance put a hand on his shoulder, nodded to him. He wasn't too sure if he liked Avernus, if he respected him. But the fact that the man was willing to go his Calling, to do so willingly, that was courage. And he could respect that at least.

The Warden Commander turned, headed for the door to take him back to the Peak, and to his new companions.

"Warden?" Avernus called after him. Lance stopped at the door, turned to hear the mage.

"This is good, isn't it?"

And Lance left.


	10. Chapter 10

They made camp at the base of the mountain, in almost the exact same spot he and his friends had camped at a year ago. He washed up a bit in the same stream.

Cauthrien and Velanna were asleep, he thought. They had retreated to their tents and not come out for many hours. He sat up in the dark, watching the stars. He lay on the ground, near the dying remnants of the fire he'd built, his stomach heavy with the stew they'd eaten in Soldier's Peak.

And he pulled Avernus' vial out of his pocket, set it in the dirt beside him. He put Morrigan's Ring around the rim; let it sit there while he thought. He touched the ring gently, felt the wood on his fingertip.

"I miss you so much," he said to it. "I miss you."

He sat up, held the ring in his hand proper.

"You know, there're times I can barely get out of bed. I still dream about you. Almost every night. I try to drink so I won't, but I do. You were wrong, you know. You said that I would regret you. That I would regret _us_. I don't. I just… I just regret that I couldn't keep you."

He reached up, wiped his eye. There was a tear there. How'd that get there?

"I, uh, doubt. Sometimes. Doubt that we were… in love. I don't know, sometimes. I think we were. I used to know it."

He sniffled, his emotions getting the better of him.

"I heard – somewhere, it doesn't matter where – that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Is it true? Do you, maybe, love me more? That was the last thing you said to me, you know, that you love me. I love you."

Lance looked around, made sure that there was no one to see him now, that the girls were sleeping soundly, not watching him.

"I'm sorry. I… you saved my life, I know that, but you left me, and I… I can't go on. Not without you. Here I am with a whole country on my side, with countless friends and people who would call me family, and I'm so alone without you. I'm lost. I guess what I'm asking is, do you really love me? I keep telling myself that you had a reason – a good one – for leaving. But… It's so hard without you."

He leaned back on a tree stump, held the ring in his hand, talking directly to it. He might have looked like a fool, but he stopped caring. He wanted to pretend that she could hear him.

"Listen. I have to… do something. To other people. It's something… unthinkable. When I heard them say that they were going to execute you… Morrigan, I love you. No matter what, just know that I love you. I'm so, so sorry for this. What I have to do… what it will make me… you might not want to see me when it's done. Just, never forget that I love you."

And he took the vial, Avernus' dark research. The Power of Blood.

And he pulled the stopper, put it to his lips and tilted his head back, swallowing it all. He let the bottle drop into the fire pit. And he waited, for something.

He felt nothing at first, and wondered if it would not work, if it was all for nothing.

And then a searing pain shot through his midsection, causing him to double over in the dirt. He let out a gasp of pain, clenching his jaw tight so as not to wake anyone else in the camp. And put his hand to his mouth, screamed.

It felt like he was boiling alive.

He thrashed and writhed, got handfuls of dirt as he convulsed. His eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out.

Quietly, from where she sat in her tent, Velanna stepped out, carefully walking to where Lance lay on the ground. He had one fist clenched around the ring, the ring that he had been talking to. She stared down at him, wondering about him.

She had only ever known the cold, hard Warden Commander. To see him crying, talking to a woman that wasn't there, trying to reach her... She knelt beside him, carefully moved his head to cradle him. She felt strange now.

She wanted this Warden Commander to be happy again, to steal all the pain and agony he felt constantly and make it so that he never had to hurt again. She had stopped seeing him as a _shemlen_ a long time ago, and couldn't even think in such a limiting fashion anymore. She saw only a man. Worn, weary, and hurt, but a man nonetheless.

And she felt… something. She didn't want to put the word to it, but she knew what it could be called.

And she held him tightly, cradled him, tried to soothe him. Her lips went to his forehead, kissed him gently, sweetly, and she whispered so low that he might not have been able to hear.

"I am here, Commander," she said. "I am here for you. I always will be."

She held on tightly.

And then he was sitting up, thrashing wildly, screaming.

She let him go, surprised, and she scrambled away to keep from being attacked.

"No! No! No!" he screamed, and swatted at the air before him. Then he was on his knees, hands gripping his stomach. He lurched forward, vomited.

And he sat back, wiping his mouth and his sweaty brow.

"Oh, Maker," he whimpered, clutching his chest. Velanna moved towards him, reached out to touch him, comfort him.

"What did you see?" she asked.

He touched her, held her hands in his own, shook with fright.

"Dragons," he croaked. "She was surrounded by dragons, and I couldn't save her."

Velanna held him tightly, showing compassion uncharacteristic for her. No. It wasn't unusual. There were nights when she held Seranni like this. Promising to protect her.

"I couldn't save her," Lance whispered. "I tried so hard, but I couldn't. I couldn't."

"Hush, Commander," said Velanna, and she found herself kissing his head to comfort him, rocking back and forth quietly. "Shh."

Cauthrien emerged from her tent, brow furrowed and sword in hand.

"I heard screaming," she said, looking around. "Is everything okay?"

Then she saw Lance and Velanna, and the terror on Lance's face, the sadness in Velanna's eyes. And she stepped back into her tent, leaving them alone, despite the swirling thoughts in her head.

"I won't let it happen," Lance growled. "I'll kill them. All of them. Everyone. I'll kill them all."

She nodded, and held him tighter. But he moved away from her, forced himself to stand despite his shaking knees.

And he was looking around the forest, looking around their camp. At what, she could not tell. She stood beside him, scanned their surroundings to try to find whatever he was looking for. And then he shouted at the trees.

"I can feel you," he shouted. "Come out. Or I'll burn these woods down."

There was a flutter in the trees near them, like wings. Velanna stepped into a casting position, wishing she had brought her staff out with her. She reached out into the trees, felt around them, searched for whoever was watching them.

And she felt something strange, something the forest did not recognize at all.

"I surrender!" a girl shouted in mock fright. "The strong warrior has succeeded in drawing me out."

And someone was approaching, their form now visible in the dark. Velanna couldn't quite make out features yet, but knew that his woman was a human mage.

"Poor defenseless me," she said. "So vulnerable. 'Tis a shame that there is no strong, powerful man to guard my virtue."

"Who the sod are you," Lance asked, and gasped when she stepped into the fading moonlight. "No. You aren't Morrigan."

"No, I am not."

And Velanna could see her, too. Golden eyes, pale skin, full human lips, and long black hair tied into a single braid that ran the length of her back.

"I am Lilith. And I suppose you could say that I am the one that got away."


	11. Chapter 11

Lance was sitting across the fire from her, not being shy about his keen interest in who she was and where she had come from. Velanna was seated close, and let her hand tap absently against his leg.

She didn't trust Lilith, and Lance couldn't blame her. Cauthrien quietly agreed with him, sitting on his left with her sword on her lap. She watched both Lilith and Lance, waiting for some reason to begin with the head-chopping she was so fond of. Lance hadn't said much more than two words to the ex-knight, but he was beginning to respect her quite a bit.

"Are you going to ask me a question, Grey Warden," Lilith asked, poking at the thick stew in her bowl. "Or are you just going to stare?"

She was dressed in a robe that increased her likeness to Morrigan. And that disturbed him. Velanna saw his gaze flicker over Lilith's ample cleavage, and was a little gratified to see him frown in irritation.

"Who are you?" Lance asked. She snorted.

"I am Lilith, as I said."

"Are you really Flemeth's daughter?"

"Do you mean to ask if Flemeth gave birth to me?"

Lance didn't speak. Velanna looked over at him, saw his eyes widen just a bit. She had said something, something to set him off. Velanna didn't get the chance to speak before Lance was standing abruptly, crossing the distance between him and the witch.

He reached out, caught her throat and pushed her into the ground. The witch reached up instinctively, gripped his wrists to defend herself. Velanna could sense Lance drain Lilith's magic, and smiled a bit to herself.

She liked it when he showed off.

"Don't you ever say that!" he snapped. "Answer my sodding question. Who are you?"

She gasped, trying to catch her breath. She had evidently never had the magic sucked out of her. But then she was smiling, laughing.

"Oh, so are you a Templar, then? How marvelous. And my sister fell in with you?" she laughed louder, as though this was some sort of grand joke. Lance snarled, reached for his belt knife. Cauthrien was up, grabbing his wrist to prevent him from cutting the girl's throat.

"Perhaps you should try interrogation before we skip right to the execution?" Cauthrien said. Lance regarded her with a frown, but nodded.

He released the witch, but stayed near enough that she could feel his Templar powers within him.

"I _am_ Flemeth's daughter," said Lilith. "Inasmuch as she has ever had a daughter."

"How did you get away?" Lance asked, keeping his belt knife in hand.

"I… discovered her grimoire and her little secret," said Lilith. "And so I left when I had the chance."

Lance scowled at her. She was young, pretty, looked no older than Morrigan. Which was impossible. Morrigan had said that the grimoire was older than either of them. So that meant…

"How do you stay young?" he asked. Lilith laughed again, brushing aside a few errant strands of hair and leaning back on her elbows.

"How do you imagine?"

"Sod her," said Lance, and he turned away. "We should gut her and leave her in the forest."

"But then you would not get the benefit of my privileged information," said Lilith. "And you will not be able to save Morrigan."

Lance stopped, becoming very rigid. He grit his teeth, and Velanna thought she heard something pop. He turned on his heel to face her.

"What are you talking about? Speak quickly."

"I have been Antiva these past years," she said. "But I have not been ignorant to the Blight. No, I have been most interested in the workings of the Darkspawn."

He crossed his arms, looking at Cauthrien and making sure that she was ready to cut Lilith's head off the instant she proved untrustworthy.

"You know what I speak of," said Lilith, letting it hang in the air. Velanna saw him stand straighter, his hand curl tightly around the knife. And she stood, stepped towards him. Quietly, in order to comfort him, she let her hand rest at the small of his back, rubbing him gently with her fingernails.

He seemed to relax, just a bit.

"Perhaps I do," he said. And Lilith smiled to herself.

"Then I suppose all that is left is to figure out how this ends."

"How's it end?"

"Flemeth was willing to part with the grimoire, was she not? Did you not wonder why? 'Tis not something she would do out of hand, is it?"

Velanna felt Lance go tense again, put a hand on his arm, leaning against him slightly. She looked like a woman on his arm, like a trusted friend, perhaps more.

"You mean…" Lance began, looking away from Lilith to stare out into the wilderness. Velanna looked up at him, following the conversation with some difficulty but following nonetheless. Lance's great shame was coming back to bite him in a big way.

"The grimoire was flawed."

"It was a trap," Lance whispered aloud. And he reached behind him, found flat ground to sit on. Velanna followed him, looking at him with great concern. The color had drained from his face, and he was somewhere between terror and shock.

"She learned from her first mistake," said Lilith. "And she planned for another. Do you know the depths of her depravity?"

Lance felt Velanna's hand in his, squeezed even as he struggled to believe what he was hearing. Morrigan was in danger, in more ways than he could believe. And he found Velanna's arm, held onto it for comfort.

"What did I do?" he whispered. Lilith seemed to take some amusement from that. And she leaned forward, elbows now on her knees.

"Flemeth _found_ the Old God, Urthemiel. Flemeth told someone where it was, how to find it before his brothers did."

The Architect. Lance felt nauseous, wanted to pull away from the group and go stumbling into the woods. He needed air. It was so suffocating here. He needed time to breathe.

"Oh, no," he reached up, ran a hand through his hair. Velanna felt it, too. This Flemeth, this Witch of the Wilds, she was responsible for the Blight, for the deaths of so many. Lance was in love with the daughter of his greatest enemy, his nemesis.

And here he was, facing off with a woman that looked exactly like Morrigan, talking about Flemeth, the Blight, its roots. And he was headed to Orlais, racing against Grey Wardens and Templars, an army of Chevaliers in between him and Val Royeaux. And a child with the soul of an Old God, the result of a flawed Ritual and his own selfishness.

"Will it hurt her?" asked Lance. Lilith shrugged.

"I cannot say. 'Twill be… the Old God, but whether 'tis a monster or… otherwise… I cannot say."

"What _can_ you say?" Lance asked, flipping the belt knife around in his hand so that he could slip it back into its sheathe.

"Before this is over, there will be death," Lilith smiled pleasantly. "But of course, you knew that already."

"I'm going to Orlais," said Lance. "I'm going to find Morrigan. You comin' with me?"

Lilith nodded. "I would not wish to be anywhere else."

He grunted and sat across from her. He held his hands out in front of him, warming his hands by the fire. Velanna sighed, quietly. She had her hand on his knee, comforting him. If he noticed, he made no gesture.

"Did you actually think you could defy Flemeth and get away with it?" Lilith asked. Lance looked at her, brow furrowed in that same look of irritation he wore almost every day. He frowned.

Looking back, he should have known.

Flemeth looked at life as a grand game, a game of schemes of victory conditions and parameters. She never lost, not unless it meant she won. And her willingness to lose, the fact that the great and legendary Flemeth of the Korcari Wilds had lost, it should have set a fire in his mind. He should have known, _Morrigan_ should have known.

That book, the one he ripped from the chest in her hut, it wasn't real. It was a copy, a dupe, a fake. And he fell for it – hook and line. And here he was, prepared to pay for it, prepared to answer it in blood.

"Do you know the story?" Lilith asked him, smiling from across the fire. "The one the Chasind tell of my mother to scare them into obedience?"

"Yes," said Lance, looking into the fire. He recalled Morrigan telling him, one night in camp. The look on her face, the lilt in her voice as she described the particulars. Lilith's smile faded, and she looked deadly serious as she spoke now.

"But you did not hear the best part," she whispered. Lance glared at her, his lips curling in a snarl once more.

He stared blankly, an obvious demand for her to continue.

"Did you know that Bann Conobar Elstan once resided in a castle?" she asked. Lance frowned again. He was growing impatient, and it seemed to amuse her. She liked playing on his nerves like that, making him annoyed and angry.

So she leaned back, adopted a more casual pose and smiled wide as she spoke.

She was a vile reflection of Morrigan, all the bitterness and rage wrapped up in a sweeter package.

"Did you know that Flemeth faced capture during her escape? That Conobar's Captain of the Guard was a man long abused by his lord? Or that he dreamed of glory and honor for his family? Did you know that Flemeth promised him all of that and more?"

Lance leaned on his knees, looking as though he wanted a more intimate conversation with Lilith. And with an unamused curl of his lips, he said, "Get to the point."

That made Lilith giggle.

"Flemeth provided this," she said. "Title and land. A castle that once belonged to the Elstans."

She lost her smile, replaced it with a grimace.

"The Captain made a deal. One of his sons in exchange for the glory, title, land, all of it."

Velanna glanced up at Lance; saw the irritation that threatened to boil, to become pure rage. Lilith very much enjoyed this. She wondered how much like his Morrigan she was, whether or not his rage and irritation stemmed from that.

"Do you know what his name was?"

Velanna could see the wheels turning in his head, the cold terror dawning on his face. She didn't follow, not at first. Then she remembered one of the numerous arguments he'd had with Nathaniel, always about their respective fathers.

Nathaniel insisting that his father had done only what was right, the Commander throwing it back in his face. And his anger, his rage at what had befallen them both.

And that his father was a Teyrn, an important man, that Nathaniel's family had no right. That his lineage was old and pure.

"His name was Sarim Cousland."


	12. Chapter 12

They were a few days from Orlais still, having camped at the very edge of the Waking Sea. The Wardens had probably reached Orlais by now, but they would not act yet. Lance was still sure that he could get to Val Royeaux in time.

The Frostback Mountains loomed ominously overhead. A chill air blew down the peaks. He recalled the last time he trekked to the top of the Frostbacks, cold air blowing around them. Snow so thick you could hardly see two inches in front of your head.

He remembered trudging through snow.

He remembered Morrigan's voice, rhythmic and musical.

_Lovely! We can freeze to death while digging for the bones of a madwoman._

And he found himself once again feeling sorry for himself, once again fighting the overwhelming urge to just sit down and never get up again.

He looked down at the ring on his finger, rubbed it with his thumb, felt the wood. He could feel it stronger now. Avernus had been right. He was much more sensitive to magic. Velanna's presence made his body tingle with electricity. He felt like his bones were vibrating.

He couldn't even approach Lilith without risking a breakdown of sorts.

So he had separated himself from the others. From Velanna and Lilith and Cauthrien. The former knight gazed at him still with that strange look. Something like admiration and awe. He didn't like it.

He was sitting now at the very edge of the forest, watching the mountains.

It was quiet here, and he had time to think.

It was hard not to dwell on Morrigan and the good times. And then the horrid, awful times after that.

He missed her. He felt it with all his heart, all his soul – what little of it remained. He couldn't feel her on the other side of the ring, and he wondered why. Was it him? Was he just closed off to everything now? Or was it her?

It made him sad, but not in the same way he'd been sad. It was like losing a part of himself, a more important part than he would have thought.

So he was standing now, looking at the mountains, wondering what would happen when he finally got Val Royeaux, when he finally had his chance to be reunited with his love. There wasn't anything he could expect, really. He could only wonder, hope.

She probably wouldn't welcome him with open arms, not yet anyway.

He turned to head back to camp, to his tent and to get some rest.

As he did an arrow whistled past his head, causing him to drop low and turn to face the woods.

He probably should have figured that the Wardens were after him now. Considering what he'd done, what he was responsible for. They were coming for him.

But he was a little insulted that they'd only sent one.

He ran towards Lance, dropping his bow and drawing his sword. Lance wasn't armed except for the belt knife in his hands. The Longsword coming towards him just now wasn't something he wanted to tangle with.

So he chose not to.

That was the key, really, in combat. You fight on your terms, in your way, when you wanted. That was how to win. And if the enemy refused, then you didn't give him the option.

So when the sword came down to strike, Lance caught the wrist that carried it, twisted, and swiped the sword out of his opponent's hand.

The attacker didn't lose a stride, though. He was well-trained, just as Lance had been. But unfortunately for him, Lance was an experienced fighter and he wasn't.

Lance swept his attacker's legs out from under him, pinned him to the ground, He brought his belt knife up, ready to strike, knee on one of his attacker's arms, one on his chest, holding his wrist to prevent any defense.

Lance looked down at him, squinting to see him in the moonlight.

"Saul," he said, letting the man up.

Saul stood, rubbed his chest in irritation. He looked angry, but more that he'd been bested than that he had failed to kill him. He was young, a soldier, but untested. The Wardens would have to do better than that.

"Guess your reputation is well-deserved," said Saul. He held his hands out to show that he wasn't armed, but smiled as though he were speaking to a friend. "I should have waited. I wouldn't have missed."

"I'm glad you did," said Lance. He reached down and lifted up Saul's sword, held it out threateningly. He let the tip tap Saul on the chin, a little warning.

"Hey, I had a job to do," Saul said. "I'm sure you know what that's like."

Lance gave him a look. He dropped the sword; let it embed itself into the ground. He crossed his arms.

"Don't follow me," he said. Saul snorted.

"What kind of thing is that to say? You know that isn't an option."

He retrieved his sword, sheathed it. He tried to follow Lance as he went back to camp, chattering away as he went.

"Don't be that way! Look, we both know where you're going!"

Lance turned around, gave Saul a scowl. He smiled in return.

"I'm not even upset about the whole 'sleeper hold' thing," said Saul, making a gesture about his throat. He was trying to remain optimistic, as though Lance weren't seriously considering breaking his nose and leaving him tied up. "I'm coming with you."

"Who invited you?" asked Lance. Saul shrugged.

"I can either follow you, and we could do this again in a few hours, or you can let me tag along."

"You're trying to stop me. Kill me. I'm not that stupid."

"Aren't you?"

That got a dirty look.

"What I mean to say is that you don't have a lot of choice. You are going after the girl. So are we. My comrades – _our_ comrades – are going on ahead."

Lance took a large step towards him, stood nose-to-nose with the man. He frowned. Saul leaned back, trying to look nonchalant. He opened his mouth to speak.

Lance struck him in the throat, causing him to double over, gasping.

"Sure you want to come with me?"

He held up a hand to stall Lance, trying to get him to stay put long enough for him to catch his breath. When he was able, he sat on his knees and spoke, trying to reason with the man before him.

"Hey, buddy, pal-" he stopped speaking when he saw Lance's scowl, changed his tone. "I mean, we both need to get to Val Royeaux. You have your reasons, I have my orders. They don't necessarily need to conflict."

"I'm going to save her life," said Lance. "You want to kill her. Doesn't conflict more than that."

And then Saul was sighing, raising his hands and trying to look honest.

"You… are the first Warden to defeat a Blight in centuries! You are a hero! I… I would follow _your_ commands unto death. If this woman means something to you, then it's enough for me to side with you," Saul said. And then he was saluting, bowing. "Warden Commander, I am yours to command."

Lance grimaced. This was déjà vu at its finest. He hated commanding people. He hated having oaths flung around, pledges made. It was so… gross. He didn't want it.

"Keep it," he said. And he turned to go back to camp. Saul watched him go, dumbfounded.

Then, "Hey! I'm coming with you."

Lance didn't answer. He merely retreated to the camp, Saul following, trying not to get on his nerves too much. He was young, impressionable yet. Joining the Grey Wardens was still an honor to him. He was still amongst heroes.

It had yet to rot, to fester. He was not yet less than nothing. He was not yet the same as the evil he fought. He was not yet burning the Black City.

Lance had crossed that bridge long ago, had left it smoldering behind him. He was alone now. Had been for a long time.

And as he saw Velanna watching him, welcoming him back with a tight smile, and a curious nod to the man that followed him, he knew that he would be alone for a long while yet.

"He's comin' with us," said Lance, hooking his thumb at Saul. "Keep an eye on him. Have Cauthrien cut his balls off if he tries something."

Velanna nodded, grinning at Saul's discomfort. She took no small measure of joy from a human's plight. Even if she had come to understand them a little more.

Lilith sat watching him pass, caught the look in Velanna's eye as she followed Lance. And she grinned to herself, mentally making note.

"Oh! Are we to have more companions?" she asked, increasing her enthusiasm with each syllable.

"Shut up," Lance grunted. He pulled open the canvas flap to his tent, stepped inside. Velanna's gaze lingered, her finger running across her throat, the length of his scar. Lilith saw this, too.

And Velanna looked away, stepped into her own tent and didn't come back out for some time.

Saul was left sitting at the campfire next to Lilith. They looked at each other, both smiling at one another.

"Hello," he said. She grinned wide.

"Do you know how long a man can survive without functioning kidneys?" she asked. And Saul didn't talk to her again.


	13. Chapter 13

He led them up the mountain, near Orzammar. He considered making a detour, stopping in to see how things were going since he'd given Bhelen the throne. Maybe even get some supplies, decent rest.

But he was a little too concerned with getting to Val Royeaux, getting to Morrigan. Velanna hadn't said much during the few days it had taken to get to this point. She had stuck close to Lance; he assumed that it was out of their familiarity. The others certainly put the "strange" in stranger.

He didn't mind her presence for once. Welcomed it, even. She was nice, if that was a word that could describe her. She certainly hadn't made it a habit to be nice.

But around him, she was brighter, more willing to say things that weren't outright insulting to the human race. He liked that version of her.

She taught him how to cook some Dalish foods, generally some sort of venison or fish, and had let him in on a few of the Elves' ancient stories, things normally reserved for the Dalish alone. She of course did that well out of earshot of the others in their group.

More than once they had spoken privately away from the camp, generally things concerning their travel, their health. He didn't need to be a genius to know that she meant more.

He was wary of any sort of unprofessional relationship with her. He was afraid of it.

He didn't want to lead her on, but more than that he didn't want to start caring for her. That was dangerous. That broke hearts. Got people killed.

And he wouldn't have her blood on his hands.

The mountain was just as windy and awful as he remembered. Wind was biting his ears, and he pulled the hood of his cloak up tighter, barely able to see out from under it.

Velanna groaned in extreme annoyance.

"Why did I agree to follow you _here_?"

"Didn't ask," Lance countered. And Velanna laughed, the sound lost in the wind. She touched his shoulder, a friendly gesture that he was unused to.

Perhaps they had gotten closer than he intended. Perhaps he had led her on. And it had to stop. He had to turn around and tell her that she was being stupid, that there was no way he could ever love her, that he could ever _be_ human again.

And yet he didn't. He instead slowed his pace so that he walked closer to her. He nudged her with his elbow, and raised his eyebrows at the confused look she gave him. He let her touch him gently, and he let himself touch her back.

She glanced over her shoulder at Lilith and Cauthrien and Saul, made sure that they were too busy guarding themselves against the snow to see her smiling, see her looking at Lance with admiration and affection.

He was a special man, a special human. He was capable, professional, very impressive. He had made her see all of humanity in a different light, something considerable for anyone. He was special.

Special to her.

She looked at him, wondered what he thought of her. She hoped that her cold attitude, her open disdain, hadn't ruined any possibility of a _connection_. She felt as though she were connected to him. She wondered if he felt the same.

She knew that they were going on an expedition to save his beloved, but certainly there was room enough for the two of them in the future. After all, the woman in question had betrayed him and broken his heart. That certainly removed the romance from their relationship, right?

She could convince him. She was sure of it.

By Velanna's reckoning, she deserved at least a little fun – maybe even some happiness. And he did too. He'd earned it. Perhaps she wasn't the absolute best choice, maybe not even his first choice, but she could make him happy. They could both be happy.

Then he stopped in his tracks and a rush of fear swept through her.

He was looking about searching for something.

She turned in place, trying to spot whatever had caught his attention. The others were a little slower to stop, bumping into each other and exchanging dirty looks.

"I don't believe it," Lance muttered. Velanna was about to ask what he was referring to when she saw it.

A dragon was flying, visible now that the snow had slowed somewhat. It roared, the sound echoing across the mountaintops and shaking loose the snow on several of them. It swooped low towards them, wings spread wide.

He let out a small, humorless laugh.

"That just soddin' figures, now don't it?"

She squinted, trying to see what he was referring to. It was a dragon, not the first she'd seen, though no less magnificent for it.

And then she could make out wounds all over it, difficult at first, then very visible.

It had one eye gone and a large bare patch where its armored scales should have been. A number of other scars crisscrossed it, making it look like a veteran of many battles. And she looked at Lance, saw the few scars that were visible, knew of the many that weren't. He was a veteran of many battles.

And she recalled the armor that sat in his quarters, collecting dust. And she knew who the dragon was.

"She's beautiful," Lance whispered. And he followed the dragon with his eyes, turned to watch her swoop into the valley below, and found himself staring right into Velanna's eyes. She was looking at him with intensity. And she saw there was a similar intensity in his.

He gave a gesture of his head, signaled for them to keep moving. She followed him, eyes on his back, watching his every move.

He knew she was, and it comforted him to know it. It felt like belonging again.

He had no worry of the dragon turning to attack them. It was very far off and they were very small targets. And besides that, he had already killed her once. What was one more time?

No, maybe he wouldn't. A dragon like that deserved to live on.

They were in Orlais now, and Lance realized that it was the furthest he'd ever been from home. They were past the point of no return. Of course, the line had never existed for him in the first place. There was no going home for him.

He was going to win or he was going to die here.

He glanced back at the others, at Velanna and at Lilith. Cauthrien was a little more solid in her determination. Saul he couldn't quite peg, but the man was young and looked to Lance as a leader. He hadn't much of a choice, though there wasn't much to gain from deceiving him at this point.

But then he never thought Morrigan had much to gain.

And that stung him. He was still surprised at how sharp the wounds were. He never counted on it. He should have been smarter than that, but every time it was like ripping off a bandage, letting his wounds flow freely again.

He hated it, though there wasn't much that could be done for it.

He was past the wallowing in his own self pity stage, though. So that was something.

And the feeling of grabbing Velanna's arm, her hand holding him tight for balance, as he helped from a precarious rock… it was a lot like old times.

He thought of Morrigan, and it was starting to hurt a little less each time.

"We follow the Waking Sea," said Lance. "All the way to Val Royeaux."

"It will be nightfall soon," said Saul. "We can perhaps get there by morning."

"If we go all night," said Velanna, her voice making it clear that she wasn't a fan of the idea. But she would go along with it if it was what he wanted.

"No," said Lilith. They all looked at her. "We will be making camp soon."

Cauthrien narrowed her eyes at the witch. She reached for her sword.

"And who says that you get to give orders?"

"Orders?" Lilith asked, tapping her chin in thought. "I didn't say 'twas an order. Not directly."

Cauthrien let out a growl. She drew her sword, and held it with both hands.

"Why are we even bothering with this witch?" she asked. "We don't need her! We never needed her! She is a liability."

"You need me more than you know."

Lance frowned at them both. He really didn't know who to side with. He couldn't disagree with Cauthrien's suspicion exactly. Lilith had come to them, and she certainly hadn't made herself useful. But he couldn't really think of any particular reason to get rid of her. Her magic might come in handy, and her likeness to Morrigan would definitely make it a bit of a problem for him to kick her out.

"Ladies," said Saul, stepping forward with his hands raised. "We are on the same side. For now. We need all the help we can get."

Cauthrien scowled at him too.

"I see no reason to keep _you_ around either," said Cauthrien. Saul shut up.

Lance finally intervened.

"Lilith, _why_ do you want to camp for the night?"

"I have been to Val Royeaux. At night 'tis filled with thugs and bandits. We will need to arrive during the day if we are to appear as travelers."

Cauthrien squeezed the sword's hilt, looking ready to cut her head off anyway. Then she relaxed and sheathed her sword. Lilith responded by poking Cauthrien's armor, using her magic to leave a smoking indention.

"That's lovely," said Saul. "We all get along now, no?"

"No," Cauthrien said. She looked at the witch, stabbed a finger at her and said, "I'll be watching you."

"That's great," said Lance, stepping away towards the coast. "That's just great."

He took a few steps, trying to find a good spot by the warmer shores of the Waking Sea to make camp. If Lilith was anything like Morrigan then it would pay not to piss her off. And he wasn't very surprised to see someone coming up the coast towards them.

It was a young Elf girl, dirty, robe in tatters. She was holding a mage's staff, and she was looking at him expectantly.

"Oh, hi!" she shouted as she approached, stumbling over the hem of her robes.

Lance gave her a confused look, wondering what exactly she was doing.

"You aren't bandits, are you?" she asked. She looked between them, unable to place them. They certainly looked ragtag enough to be bandits. But they also looked too ragtag to be bandits. They were funny like that. "If you are, then I'm afraid I've no money. So you'll just have to leave me alone. Because I don't want to have to set you on fire. Or electrocute you. Or make you explode or something."

Lance wanted to laugh. He didn't.

"You a mage?" he asked. She nodded emphatically.

"I am. But I won't turn you into toads, so you don't have to worry! But you probably already know that, right? I mean, you have two mages with you," she said, pointing towards Velanna and Lilith. Lance cocked his eyebrow and glanced at them.

Cauthrien's mouth twitched into a smile. "She's… adorable."

"Say, who are you folks?" the girl asked. Lance shrugged.

"Grey Wardens."

"Oh! How wonderful! I guess that's pretty convenient for me, huh?"

"How so?"

She looked around, as though the answer was supposed to be obvious.

"I sorta 'evaded' my Templars. I'm an apostate now, you see. I escaped."

Lance had the horrid feeling that he knew exactly where this was going.

"I want to be a Grey Warden!" she declared, and leaned on her staff. He looked at her. She was a teenager still, no more than seventeen. Probably a newly harrowed mage. Why was she being escorted by Templars? Becoming a Grey Warden would exonerate her of any crimes, that was true. But it certainly wouldn't earn him any goodwill points with the Chantry.

But he needed help, and Cauthrien was right. She was adorable. Maybe he just had some sort of weird Elf fetish.

"Alright," he said. "But you gotta say your name."

"Oh! That's easy! I'm Neria Surana."

"You know," said Lance, continuing on ahead and prompting her to fall in line behind him. "I must be some kind of stupid."


	14. Chapter 14

"I like how you think, ser," said Saul, fixing his trousers and stepping away from the bush. "You can never have too many women."

"I hate you," Lance grunted. Saul patted him on the shoulder laughing. Lance wasn't a fan of being touched while urinating.

"Oh, come on. Even I know better than to think the famed Hero of Ferelden is above the natural instinct," he said. He leaned closer and whispered, "Besides, the Elf is sweet on you. The bigger one I mean."

"Velanna," he corrected. Saul nodded, sighing a little wistfully.

"You are a lucky man, you know," he said. Lance grunted. He turned to head back to the camp, having relieved himself to his satisfaction. He had long since tired of Lilith and Neria's debates over the nature of the Circle and its rules on magic, and Cauthrien's snide comments about mages in general. Velanna stood by, ready with a sharp remark aimed at either of the mages about how the Circle suffocated real magic and how shapeshifting was a useless "art" compared to the Dalish mastery of nature.

It brought back some rather painful memories and was just generally annoying as hell.

Saul was blabbering about Cauthrien, asking whether or not he thought she was "into him". Lance shrugged off his moronic banter with a grunt.

The guy may not have been planning some sort of dramatic backstab, but he was certainly a ponce. Perhaps bugging him to death was how Saul planned to kill him.

Lance sat on a piece of driftwood, dragged up from the beach. They were camped just on the edge of the beach, where they could lay on solid ground, but had their fire in the sand. It would have been fun – cozy even – were he not thinking of Morrigan.

She was in the Orlesian court now, and was likely sleeping in the lap of luxury – silk sheets, candied grapes, the works – all the things he would have so willingly provided her. And as he tapped the ring with his thumb he wondered if she could feel him still.

She likely would have felt his sorrow, his pain. It might have hurt her, made her sick. She would have felt the depth of his love for her, perhaps would have regretted her departure more than she already did. She would have felt the sand chafing in his boot.

He unlaced it, unbuckled his leather armor too. He was tired of wearing it all day. It certainly wasn't very bright.

He was wiping sand off of his foot, reaching into his back for a clean sock, when he saw Neria watching him.

"What?" he grunted. She smiled sweetly.

"Are you… I mean, you couldn't be. We're in Orlais, so you couldn't be _him_. Why would you be?"

Velanna smiled to herself, small, almost unnoticeable except by someone who knew her well, someone like Lance.

"He is the Hero of Ferelden," said Cauthrien. Saul nodded, looking right at her. Cauthrien had removed her armor to clean it and to bathe. Saul had of course taken notice. The woman was a good ten years his senior.

Although, Lance couldn't exactly blame him. She was in great shape, and a pretty woman. She hadn't a husband, or any sort of relationship, really. Lance envied her that. She had never been heartbroken.

Or maybe she had. Maybe Loghain was the closest she ever got. And Lance had broken her heart.

He looked down, eyed his ring.

"Oh, wow!" Neria declared. "The real Grey Warden. The big man. The hero!"

"Stop," he said, rubbing his throat. "I'm not. I'm just… me."

"But you're-"

"The story doesn't live up to the man," he said. "I'm no hero. Never was."

She stared up at him, eyes saucer-like. It wasn't the first time he'd seen it, wouldn't be the last. She was young, bubbly. She saw in him some sort of hero. Some sort of super-person. A superhero.

He wasn't. He knew he wasn't. The reality would shock her to her core, shatter her. It wasn't anything a girl like that needed to see. He wasn't anything she needed to see.

He was just… a murderer. A glorified killer. Someone who should have died on a tower a long time ago, should have been buried.

He was making up for that now.

Lilith eyed his ring, saw him tapping it methodically.

"Is that…"

"Yes," he answered. She nodded.

"Can you feel Morrigan?" she asked, voice low. It was a serious question. He nodded.

"Sometimes."

"What do you feel?"

He looked at her, confused. How could he answer? What was there to say?

"I feel… sad."

"You loved her?"

"I did."

"And she loved you?"

He nodded. "I'd like to think so."

She closed her eyes, breathed out. He didn't know what she expected, what she wanted from it. But she looked at him, golden eyes set, determined. And she sneered, turned back to the fire and to her argument with Neria.

Velanna saw it, and saw Lance look at his ring. She leaned close to him, whispered.

"She was that special to you?"

He nodded. And he looked up at her. She was looking at him in a way he'd never seen before. She was… dreamy. Her eyes searched him, looking for something he didn't know existed anymore.

"Is there anyone else special to you?"

He shrugged.

"Dunno yet."

"Could there be?"

"Dunno."

She nodded and turned back to the fire. He watched her for an extra second, trying to measure how she was feeling. He liked her, he determined.

And he stood up, went to his tent. He knew that he wouldn't be going to sleep anytime soon. He would be lying on his back, staring up at the canvas ceiling, wondering. He might think of Morrigan, try his damndest to live in a nice memory of her, to remember lying with her. Remember holding her.

Sometimes it was enough to get by. Sometimes it didn't help at all.

It would be very dark, too dark to see, before he went to sleep, before he was sure that he was too tired to dream about her.

Velanna watched him stand, watched him retreat to his tent. She often wondered what he thought about, what he did while he lay there. She supposed that she knew. He thought about _her_. Why wouldn't he?

She wished that he wouldn't, that he didn't have to. She would have done anything to help him.

Sometimes she thought that she would.

She imagined herself following him in, smiling mischievously. She would step inside, biting her lip in anticipation. He would look up, his eyes as haunted and hollow as ever. And he would ask her what she wanted, a single sound in his low, growling voice.

She didn't yet know what she would say. Perhaps something coy, something he would like. Perhaps something blatant, to let him know precisely what she intended.

She would kiss him then, and he would respond in his way. At first. He would refuse; tell her that he could not. She would convince him otherwise, with a kiss, a touch. She would whisper her desire, that she cared for him.

She would make him see otherwise, see that she was going to stay there.

He deserved someone that would stay; he deserved to be happy, to have someone willing to make him happy. She wanted to be that someone.

He had done so much for her, more than she had ever hoped anyone could do. He had changed her entire perspective, had opened her eyes to things she'd never known before.

He deserved to have the favor returned. He'd earned it.

She could be the one for him. She could be the one to make him feel right again. She wanted to be.

She imagined that they would make love, that it would feel right and natural. As much as the thought of even looking at a human being had made her sick before, she could only think of her desire for him.

The thought of it made her smile now, and her heart picked up when she thought about going to him.

They were both alone, and neither of them needed to be.

She was so caught up in her thoughts she almost didn't hear the question.

"What?" she asked, looking at Neria. The younger Elf girl smiled and repeated her question.

"Are you really a Dalish?"

"Yes," said Velanna. "I am. What of it?"

"I've never seen one before," said Neria. Velanna clucked her tongue in annoyance.

"I am Dalish," she said. "Not an animal for you to gawk at."

Neria averted her gaze suddenly, stuttering an apology. Velanna imagined the look she would get from Lance, and held up a hand to stall Neria's apology.

"No. I am sorry," she said. "Did you have a question for me?"

Neria nodded slowly, the corners of her mouth twitching in a smile once more.

"I… know little of the Dalish," said Neria. And Velanna nodded. She sighed, and couldn't help the smile that mirrored the little girl's.

"I will tell you what I can."

And she did. Lilith was rather disinterested, and Saul was paying more attention to Cauthrien, but Neria appreciated it greatly.

Velanna decided that she liked having Neria around. It was good to have someone interested in the stories of the Dalish, someone to look up to her. She was painfully reminded of her sister, and how much she missed her.

But she thought of Lance, and his determination, and she was inspired by it. She told Neria the story of how the Dalish came to be, of the humans and their crusades – their Exalted March. She told her a few stories of her own adventures, how she and Lance had met.

It made her laugh, looking back. She had tried to kill him. But she knew better now. There was no way that man was going to be killed by anyone. He would never allow it.

He was a dragon.


	15. Chapter 15

"Maker's breath!" he gasped, and held his chest. He was covered in cold sweat, the last shadows of his nightmares fading. He was in his tent, in the dark. He tried to breathe found that it was very difficult.

"Commander."

And he grabbed the knife from beside his bedroll, pointed it at the intruder even as he recognized her.

"What are you doing here?" he asked Velanna. She was sitting near him, watching. It was hard to make her out in the dark, but he could see the slight trace of worry on her features. She reached out for the knife, and he let her take it.

"I… couldn't sleep?" she tried, and she smiled – that pretty, perfect smile. He shook his head.

"Try again."

"Okay…" she put a finger to her chin, thinking how best to word it. "I wanted to watch you sleep."

He nodded. That was better. Made more sense at least. Though he wasn't exactly sure what was so thrilling about watching him sleep. She touched his cheek with the back of her hand, a motherly gesture. It set him off guard. He had a brief bit of anxiety, worry that something was wrong with her. But then he knew that it was okay, and he took her hand.

"You are warm," she said. "Feverish."

"I'm okay."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

He realized then that he was shirtless, and that made him a little uncomfortable. He reached out to grab his clothes, to dress himself proper. He wasn't sure why. He wasn't really interested in an extended conversation with her.

But then her hand was on his chest, soft and good. Her fingers touched his scars; the mauled flesh from Maker only knew how many battles. And his hand reached for her, felt the bare flesh at her neck, the tiny scar he'd left on her in their first meeting.

He remembered her well. They met in the woods. She was so sure and confident, had believed herself to be right about everything.

"You're so much like her," he whispered. His other hand came around, held her loosely. "You're so damn much like her."

Her own hands came up to his shoulders, squeezed him lightly. And he was pulling her closer, feeling her touch him.

"Don't go," he whispered. "Please don't go."

She felt him shiver, heard the quiet gasp of a stifled sob. And she shook her head, reached up to feel the very real tears that marked his every memory. She whispered back to him.

"I am staying here."

And then he kissed her, hands on her back, touching her bare arms. She returned the kiss, hungry. She wanted to tell him how she felt, to let him know that it was serious, that she wanted him. But he was already easing her down to lay on his bedroll, already kissing the scar left by his gauntleted hand.

And she welcomed him.

He was kissing her softly, not like she would expect of the hard man that she knew. She let her hair down, and he ran his fingers through it.

One finger tapped against her cheek and the Dalish tattoo inscribed there long ago. He traced it, around her chin, her forehead, to her lips, where he kissed her again. She could feel his breath come in shallow, fearful gasps.

He was nervous, and awkwardly placed his hand on her side, leaning on his elbow.

He wet his lips, hesitated.

"Are you sure?" he whispered. She nodded, touched his cheek, his chin.

"I want you," she said. And she meant it.

He shook at her touch, twitched nervously when she kissed him. He flinched once or twice, but she was patient. She wondered briefly how this felt for him, if he was still the same cool professional she'd known all this time.

Once more it occurred to her how much she had changed in the months she'd known Lance. She knew that she was nothing like the cold woman she had been. And she was glad. It felt good to stop hating.

She smiled slyly at the thought of telling this story to her clan, of their shocked faces and disbelieving looks. Velanna and a human? Impossible!

But here she was. And here he was.

And she felt him tense at her touch, as she let her fingernails scratch lightly down his back. She feared that he was thinking of Morrigan and not of her, that he was somewhere else, somewhere that he preferred.

And he assuaged her fears with a breathy whisper, a gasp of her name.

"Velanna…"

She kissed him. Thankful. Grateful.

She held him close, held him so that they looked each other in the eye.

He lay next to her afterwards, holding her protectively. He slept for only a few hours, watching her for most of the night. She slept pleasantly, content.

She woke early to find that he was sitting outside the tent, watching the sun rise. He looked as though little had changed. She joined him, wrapped in only a blanket.

She sat beside him, smiling when she thought of last night. She looked up at him, leaned against his arm casually.

"That was a mistake," he said, and she wanted to laugh. He was so busy being a tough guy, playing up the "hero" that he couldn't see something good for what it was.

"You had fun," she said. And he frowned. "If only a little."

"I… We shouldn't have done that."

"Is this one of those 'human things'?" she asked, smiling. He looked at her seriously, brow furrowed.

"I made a mistake," he said. "And I don't want to talk about it."

She nodded, seeing that he was serious about it, that their night together had only wound him up tighter. She clucked her tongue; spoke about it despite his desire not to.

"You know," she said, causing him sit straighter in annoyance. He had that certain rigidity about him, as though nothing were as simple as it seemed, as though a knife could come from anywhere. "It's okay to be happy. To enjoy yourself. I had fun. You were good."

"Stop it," he hissed, and kept his gaze fixed firmly on the horizon. She touched his knee.

"Please. Listen to me," she said. "You are a strong man. A good man, when you let yourself be. I care about you. This quest you're on will only end badly. I know you still feel for this woman but-"

He raised a hand to cut her off, looked her in the eye.

"You're stubborn," he said. "She's stubborn. I love her, deeply. And I can't let _this_" he gestured at her. "happen again. I won't."

"Do you know if she still loves you? Truly?"

"I… don't."

"Then why can't you let yourself be happy?" she asked. And she turned to reenter his tent, gather her clothes. He watched her leave, kicked himself for doing so.

He felt dirty for what he had done. Weak. Weakness was a danger. He couldn't let it show. No matter what.

He loved Morrigan, even if she wasn't here. He was wrong to think about Velanna like that, to touch her. He had to stop it.

So he stood. Gathered up his leathers and prepared for the day. If they got moving soon they could be in Val Royeaux before nightfall.

He stared out at the sea, at Val Royeaux on the north shore.

It glittered in the early morning light, like the jewel it was described as being.

He tucked his dagger into its sheathe.


	16. Chapter 16

Val Royeaux was the gleaming jewel of Orlais, as they said. It was a huge city, filled with life and grandeur. People thronged in their thousands, and shopkeepers shouted above the din to sell their wares. It was a place of beauty, the seat of Thedas' strongest nation.

And it was slowly crumbling.

The Empire was in a state. Its decline had begun with the Fereldan rebellion, a gesture of defiance that had sparked and fueled countless others like it. There were groups moving all throughout Orlais' puppet states, working to gain independence and freedom. Even within Orlais sympathetic groups petitioned for the Empire to grant independence to those states that had been conquered centuries ago.

And of course the Empress had replied with legions of Chevaliers.

The Empire's famed knights were now policing those parts of the Empire in revolt, squashing with great violence any signs of defiance they stumbled upon. Celene I was an effective ruler in that manner.

But the Chevaliers could only do so much. Their numbers had been depleted in the Fereldan rebellion thirty years ago, many young men killed. Two whole legions had been demolished at the battle of River Dane and several more had fallen to attrition in the three years that followed. There were now too few sons of Orlais to serve in the Chevaliers, and the dozens of legions that were left had been spread thin to put down the brushfires that threatened to engulf the Empire if left untended.

That left few to police Val Royeaux and their traditional station as the personal guards of the Empress. Celene I was crafty though, and so had used the Orlesian wealth where her manpower failed. And she had hired whole battalions of mercenaries.

They weren't the most loyal servants, but they were effective. And many were far more experienced than the vast militias that protected much of Orlais' countryside.

So Lance wasn't very surprised to see several Rivaini men in the garish uniforms of Orlesian soldiers standing guard outside the palace. A recent riot in Val Royeaux's vast merchant quarter had called away most of the proper Orlesian troops, and left only a large army corps of mercenaries to defend the Empress.

Not that she cared much. It was a show of power. The Orlesian court was so powerful that it need not fear assassination from anyone.

That clashed dramatically with the tales of Orlesian nobility Leliana had shared. According to her first-hand accounts, the nobility was all embroiled in the Game. Some sort of spy contest to see who could be the most polite at court but hide the biggest knife.

The Empress was in on it, too, having assassinated her uncle and kept three cousins at bay to gain the throne. Outwardly she was the very picture of beauty, not much older than Lance with golden curls covering her shoulders in mimic of the shining half-sun that was the symbol of Orlais.

She greeted him with a pleasant smile, and he gave his most polite bow, perfected during years of training from his parents and tutors. It had yet to come in handy.

"Greetings, Warden Commander," she said. "Lance Cousland."

She was trying to impress him with her knowledge, a cordial gesture from one noble to another. It wasn't hard to see how she had made such an effective ruler. She was outwardly pleasant, very wonderful, she held herself with a grace that spoke of born nobility. But he knew that it was a mask, concealing the machinations that worked behind those wonderfully blue eyes.

He was just the same.

He had come alone, the others having gone to stay at an inn with what money that he had brought from the Amaranthine treasury. He was unarmed, naturally, though he was sure he could have smuggled in a dagger or two considering how lax security was.

She wasn't surrounded by the customary honor guard of a division of Chevaliers. Instead she had a dozen or so soldiers standing at ease with pikes – likely ceremonial. A band played nearby, a dozen minstrels, probably bards in her employ. If the stories were true then that might have been all the security she needed.

He didn't come to kill her though, so she had little to fear from him. On the surface this appeared as a social call, a noble and hero from the east come to pay homage to a great and powerful ruler as a matter of courtesy before going to mingle with his comrades.

A terse man stood near the Empress, his dark skin marking him as a Navarran, the plate armor marking him as a mercenary captain. He was perhaps the leader of the troops that currently defended the palace. Perhaps a noble in his own lands.

"Your Majesty," said Lance, keeping his eyes firmly on the ground. "It is an honor."

He couldn't help but notice the expensive carpet on which he stood, likely made from the finest Orlesian silks. It was no doubt replaced with regularity, one of the garish expenses of the nobility that made his skin crawl. Good thing Alistair wasn't so wasteful.

A large banquet table off to the side caught Lance's attention. His throat was very dry, the anxiety of seeing Morrigan again working against him.

He didn't quite know what he'd say to her.

"Come with me if you want to live" might have been a good choice, had it not sounded so damn stupid. He hadn't seen her in a year and he wasn't about to make an ass of himself now. And he wasn't about to let her know that he had slept with Velanna. He had a hard time forgetting that, still feeling like he was filthy with the woman's sweat and saliva.

"Are you hungry?" asked the Empress, apparently having caught the look he was giving the foods so delicately arranged. He cleared his throat loudly.

"I have been on the road for a time, Your Majesty. I've not had a decent meal for longer."

She gestured for him to help himself, and he muttered his thanks, bowing again. He wasn't sure if foreign customs were anything similar to his own, but he had never been taught to wait for every action to be approved, not even by the King.

"I understand that you are the one who ended the Blight," said Celene, the formality dropped.

"I am," he said. He was too tired of saying it to add that he was not alone in doing it. Besides, it often paid to be a bit of a prick to nobles.

"That is very impressive."

He grabbed a roll from the table, and a butter knife. The Orlesian butter was much creamier than in Ferelden, and not at all soured. He liked it.

"I'm glad you think so," he said. And she nodded.

"I also understand that you were at Ostagar?"

"Yes," he said. He didn't bother to add that he had been the one to retrieve Cailan's body, and certain correspondence.

"You know, I sent men to aid at Ostagar," said Celene. "Many divisions of Chevaliers to halt the Blight."

"Teyrn Loghain turned them away," said Lance around a mouthful. "Don't worry; I killed him."

She flashed a small smile, a look of curiosity crossing her face. She certainly wasn't used to this sort of man, and found it a somewhat refreshing addition to an otherwise dull game.

He swallowed the roll, reaching to grab another. He was shaking, she saw, and wondered why he would be so nervous. The captain beside her noticed, too, and leaned in to whisper something.

She laughed.

"Warden Commander, my Captain here – Dirge – seems to think that you are nervous! Perhaps you are planning on killing me?" she asked with a wide smile, showing off her perfectly white teeth. They were quite expensive and cost great amounts of lyrium from the local Circle. Lance smashed as much Orlesian butter as he could on one side of the roll, not sharing the laugh.

"No, Your Majesty," he said. "I've not come to kill you. I do have a favor ask, if it is not too presumptuous."

She laughed again. Of course it was presumptuous to ask a favor of the Orlesian Empress within ten minutes of having met her. Who was he kidding? Captain Dirge looked a little off-put by it, and gestured in a manner that he thought was covert to several of his men. Their hands drifted away from their pikes to the hilts of their swords.

Lance ate hungrily, waiting for a proper response from the Empress before asking his favor.

"I would be very grateful to provide whatever aid I can to the man who single-handedly fells Archdemons. Anything, certainly."

He swallowed, feeling his throat go dry again. His stomach became a pit and he was suddenly afraid that eating those rolls had been mistake. He reached out for a goblet of wine, and an Elven servant appearing from the shadows to fill it for him before disappearing again.

Neither seen nor heard, in the Orlesian fashion. At least not until later in the evening when the lord or magistrate or whoever reached out with his greasy hands.

Sickening.

Lance was just very briefly reminded of his own romance with a house servant sometime prior to his joining the Wardens. He had cared for her. She had died at the hands of Arl Rendon Howe. But Lance had slain Howe and in so doing made his family pariahs in Ferelden, so that undoubtedly evened the score.

It didn't.

He swallowed the wine, growling at its unusually sharp taste. Wine wasn't supposed to taste like that, and it was no doubt some Orlesian bastardization of an otherwise fine product. That was of course the problem with foreign products; it just never tasted like home.

Which was fine by Lance.

"I understand that an adviser of yours," he said, unsure how to broach the subject but now unable to stop. "She's a good friend of mine. I would like to be able to meet with her."

And he put the goblet down, the shaking of his hands making the wine slosh annoyingly. The Empress nodded to him.

"Of course. Did she have a name?" she asked, a sweet smile on her lovely lips. The very definition of "noble".

"I knew her as Morrigan," said Lance. And the Empress' eyes went wide, though the rest of her features stayed neutral. And then Captain Dirge leaned in again, whispered. She nodded.

"Of course," said Celene, smiling once more. "Morrigan is a close friend. I am happy to count her as such."

And she waved a servant Elf out of the shadows, bade him fetch Morrigan. And Lance felt another rush of anticipation, his palms becoming sweaty.

But something was wrong. His gut urged him to be wary, to look out for some trap. And then he saw it, out of the corner of his eye. He didn't dare look away from the Empress, lest she know that he knew.

But he could see it, could feel it. Two guards, shutting the door leading to the outside. It was silent, almost magically so.

He never would have known were he not the Hero of Ferelden, son of Bryce Cousland.

And then the messenger Elf returned, relayed whatever news he carried to Captain Dirge, who then whispered again to the Empress. She nodded.

And the smile faded.

Captain Dirge stepped forward, spoke in a self-sure sneer.

"We know all about the little witch-girl," he said, and Lance could see the Empress twitch at that. They must have been close friends indeed. "We know that you are not operating under an official Grey Warden capacity."

He wondered how the Captain knew, seeing as the whole thing was supposed to be undercover. He also feared for Morrigan's safety, whether she was already in the hands of Templars, being taken to the Mage's Prison or worse. He wondered about the child he never met, that he didn't know well enough to love.

He wondered if he could.

The Captain waved for three of his men to take Lance into custody, and they stepped forward, hands reaching for him. He sighed.

It was to begin. The promise he'd made to himself. The promise he'd made to every god that dared listen. There would be blood now. And there would never cease to be.

He looked past the Captain, at Celene herself.

"If you do this," he said. His resolve was steady. It was not a threat. It was a simple fact. "If you keep me from her. Then your entire world will come crashing down around your ears. I will kill everyone. Everyone."

And the first soldier grabbed him. Lance reversed it easy enough, swept his hand into the man's elbow, knocked him to the side and then plunged the butter knife into his throat. The second man took less time, three sharp bangs of Lance's elbow into his nose and a quick stab through the side of his neck.

The last didn't even have time to draw his weapon, on the ground holding his neck with bloody hands in an instant.

Lance looked across the room at the Captain and the Empress. She watched with some mix of awe and horror. She was impressed.

"Get him," Captain Dirge said to the minstrels. And the Empress' bards drew daggers and charged, a good dozen of them, while the mercenaries watched.

He clapped the first one to approach him in the nose, felt it break. The second was a pretty young Elf, curly brown hair making a convenient handle with which to turn her around and shatter her knee. He used the butter knife on two others, parrying blows and slashing jugulars.

They surrounded him, watching in mute desperation as their comrades fell around him.

He wasn't quite conscious of his actions anymore. He was simply doing, fighting. He grabbed an arm, sent the butter knife into it and relieved the attached hand of its dagger with a snap of the wrist. Now he was properly armed and could begin killing in the proper manner.

A few blades hit home, buried themselves in his leather armor and did little more than cut his flesh. He was better.

The loose Orlesian clothing did nothing to protect and soon he was standing in the middle of a chamber, surrounded by groaning, moaning individuals in varying states of injury, holding a bloody dagger and searching for another target.

The Empress' mouth was agape in awe, and she couldn't help the smile that crossed her face. If she thought that he would kill her, she didn't show it. Instead, it looked as though she considered this all a show for her personal amusement.

Perhaps it was.

The more heavily armored troops from outside entered then, summoned by a runner sent while Lance was cracking the skull of a very irate young woman with a knife.

They were too heavily armored for his dagger to do anything, and he wasn't interested in fighting the whole Orlesian army, so he dropped his dagger, let it clatter noisily to the floor and he turned to face the Empress.

He kept his face neutral as he put his hands on his head, even while he was being forced his knees with a few painful kicks.

"Take him to the Tower," said Captain Dirge, invoking the name of the legendary prison of Val Royeaux where the Empire's political enemies ceased to be. He was already planning his escape as they dragged him away.


	17. Chapter 17

He had spent the better part of two days in shackles, in a small room in the Tower where two guards watched him, refusing to feed him and forcing water into his face in the crudest fashion. He had kindly informed them that they were supposed to ask him questions in addition to the torture. They laughed it off.

"Look at him," said one of his guards, his accent clearly Fereldan. "He's the soddin' Hero!"

"Some hero," the other said, his own accent Orlesian. "You'd think he'd have better sense than to massacre twelve of the Empress' best bards in front of her."

"And two of our own," said the Fereldan. The Orlesian nodded, stood up and approached.

"Yeah. Two of our own," he said. And he kicked Lance in the rib. His metal boot hurt, but it wasn't enough to crack it. He'd had it reinforced ages ago, after one too many breaks. He kicked again. And again.

He laughed and turned to sit. Lance grit his teeth through the pain.

"It was three," he said. And the Orlesian stopped. He turned, regarded Lance with a frown. And then he laughed.

"Imagine the set on this fella," the Fereldan laughed. And then the Orlesian swiped him across the mouth with his steel gauntlet. Lance tasted copper, grimaced.

His escape was going on a little more slowly than he'd hoped. He was waiting for them to move him to a proper cell, a torture chamber, something. Once he was mobile he could dispatch his guards and escape before the alarm was raised. But they seemed intent on keeping him in the company of these fine individuals, locked away in this narrow, stinking room, shackles keeping him firmly grounded.

It wasn't his first stay in a proper dungeon, but certainly his longest.

He wasn't a fan, he'd decided.

He wondered how Velanna and the others were getting along with his extended absence. He hadn't exactly explained his position, so they probably thought he was just leaving them high and dry while he spent a few days doing what it was they thought he did.

Certainly "chained to a torture cell" wouldn't pop up. He didn't think.

There was a light rap on the door, and one of his guards turned to open it. He let out a low chuckle, something like a cat-call, when he saw who it was. A pretty woman, some years older than Lance but altogether very lovely. She carried a tray with her, and she smiled pleasantly.

"Hello, hello," she said with a thick Orlesian accent. She set the tray of food down for the guards, and they began to greedily eat from it. The Fereldan was staring quite blatantly at her rump.

She looked at Lance, smile going wide.

"Are you…"

"You bet your wonderful arse he is!" said the Fereldan, guffawing loud enough to choke on his food. Served him right.

"Ah, so then the rumors _are_ true," said the woman, and she leaned closer. Her dark hair was loose around her pretty face. She seemed nice enough, but Lance got the unshakable feeling that there was something wrong about her. He recognized manipulators, he did it himself, and he could sense it in her.

"You don't know who I am," she said. And that made her giggle. She whispered to him. "I know a lot about you. My dear Leliana has told me."

And Lance's eyes went wide, his breath caught. Leliana had mentioned this woman, he was sure, though he'd never met her. And he knew enough to say that he really didn't like this woman.

"Marjolaine," he said. She laughed.

"Yes, that is I. So Leliana _did_ tell you about me. How wonderful."

He grunted. He knew that she had hurt Leliana. And that made Marjolaine an enemy of his. She leaned closer still.

"Five minutes," she whispered. And she pressed her mouth against his, forced her tongue into his mouth. He groaned in resistance, but didn't turn away.

She stood and faced the two guards, who stared in slack-jawed bemusement. She shrugged, giggled.

"How many times do you get to kiss a living legend?" she asked. They exchanged nervous chuckles, unsure if this was allowed technically. They didn't notice Lance cough into his hand.

And Marjolaine threw him a last glance before sauntering out, the guards watching her leave.

"You are one lucky sod," said the Fereldan. "You know what I would do to a woman like that?"

"Hah! If you even knew where to put it!" the Orlesian laughed. They nudged each other roughly, laughing. Lance cleared his throat loudly.

"I am taking my leave of you," he said. And they laughed louder.

"I'd like to see that," said the Orlesian. And then he shut up when the shackles holding Lance down clattered to the floor.

Lance held up the key that Marjolaine had slipped him, and stepped forward.

The palace was all dark at this time of night, its occupants all asleep. A few great windows were still brightly lit, the servants and staff of the palace busily working at whatever menial tasks were left to them.

No one paid any attention to the dark, womanly figure maneuvering on the farthest spire of the palace, angling a crossbow at the Tower.

No one paid any attention to the same womanly figure, clad in black, sliding across a thick rope connected to the grappling hook she had just fired.

No, nobody paid attention. Not until that woman was crashing through the window at the very top of the Tower, rolling to her feet, drawing blades. The first guards to notice her were cut down very quickly, as were the next few.

The guards quarters were many floors below, and she knew that they would not come quickly enough. She hurried to the door where Lance was being held, marked by Marjolaine's red palm print. She cut through the guards rapidly, her blades moving faster than they could possibly fathom.

She was well-trained, a true professional bard. She regretted having to use these well-honed skills now, after she had left that life behind. But her friend was in danger, and she was settling an old score. The Maker would forgive this one transgression, if it were her last.

And she was soon entering the door leading to his cell, and was pleasantly surprised to see him putting on the clothes of his Orlesian guard.

"What took you?" he asked, his voice harsher and raspier than she recalled. Of course, he had changed since she'd last seen him. He was very much imposing – bigger, though he was not at all different, except for the scars that crossed him.

But then, she had plenty of her own.

"You know me," Leliana said. "I have to make an entrance."

He nodded to her, reached out to grasp her shoulder. He didn't smile, didn't share the joke. Instead he looked her in the eye.

"It's good to see you," he said. And he hugged her roughly. She awkwardly returned the gesture.

"Let us depart before they catch us," she said. And he was right behind her. Marjolaine appeared at the end of the corridor, wearing her bard's leathers. She waved with her hand, gesturing for them to hurry to the top of the Tower, where a window overlooking the grand Chantry of the palace awaited.

She had her grappling hook set up already, and Marjolaine went first, sliding the long distance down and across. She landed on the Chantry's roof with a roll.

Leliana gestured for him to go next. He did so, though he was apprehensive. He was afraid of heights.

He landed roughly, crouching. His leg stung a bit, but it wasn't anything he couldn't work through. He'd had worse. Leliana landed behind him with a small hop, a smile on her face that showed just how much she enjoyed the adventure. Like old times. For them both.

She cut the rope, leaving no avenue for pursuers to follow. By the time the troops were roused and searching, a pair of Chantry sisters and one stern Brother would be checking into the inn, meeting with the Wardens that anxiously awaited their Commander.


	18. Chapter 18

"Please be careful," said Leliana, taking the Chantry robe away from Lance with as much care as she could manage. "I have to return these and I'd rather not explain to the Revered Mother how they got so dirty."

Lance grunted. He was leaned against the edge of the small bed. It was a tight fit, everyone in the one room. They'd had the money to get several, but were meeting to strategize.

"I take it you did not find her," said Velanna, sounding as though she wasn't too disappointed. She narrowed her eyes at Lance, her characteristic scowl. "Yet you _did_ manage to get yourself captured."

He shrugged. "It was a hiccup."

"It was stupid. You cannot do this," she said. "You are not invincible. Next time take someone to watch after you."

"Perhaps you would prefer to go with him?" Saul asked, looking between her, Leliana, and Marjolaine. He could scarcely decide which he preferred. Velanna scowled at him, too.

"Shut up," she said. Thinking, she added, "Spy."

He held up his hands defensively, tried to look innocent.

"Hey, I'm agreeing with you," said Saul. "They know you're here. They probably have me marked down as a traitor, too. I think we had best be more careful about our next move."

Leliana nodded.

"The Wardens came just one day ahead of you," she said. "They alerted the Empress to your treason. They say that you have come to assassinate Morrigan, her adviser on mage affairs."

Lance cocked an eyebrow.

"'Adviser on mage affairs'?"

"It was created specifically for Morrigan," said Leliana with a shrug. "The Empress _really_ likes her."

Lance snorted. What could Morrigan have ever said to the Empress to get into her good graces? As great a manipulator as Morrigan was, she lacked tact and had a habit of saying the worst possible thing at the worst possible time. Like Velanna.

He glanced over at her, found himself looking at her for a little longer than he had intended. She shared the look, her eyes filled with a little something else. Longing.

Leliana saw, and furrowed her brow. She knew that Lance was madly in love with Morrigan, or had been when they'd last seen each other. Perhaps her leaving him had indeed wounded him too deeply to be measured, and he had found someone more dependable. Was that so bad? She didn't know.

"How'd you know to rescue me?" asked Lance. Marjolaine grinned widely at Leliana. Leliana made a sour look and faced Lance, making a point not to glance at Marjolaine again.

"The Empress alerted _us_," said Leliana. Lance tilted his head, indicating for her to elaborate.

"It is all a part of the Game," said Marjolaine, leaning back in her chair and stretching like a cat. She made a noise of pleasure as she scanned the room's occupants, probably wondering whose bed she could trick her way into. "Captain Dirge has become something of a political inconvenience. He is fostering the belief among the nobility that the Empress is incapable of governing Orlais properly."

"Where does that get him?" asked Saul, who was rather over his head when it came to the muddled Orlesian politics.

"As a wealthy general if he supports the right coup," said Marjolaine. Lance tapped his foot noisily, quite a bit more eager to get back on the subject of Morrigan and how he could best rescue her.

"They let the Empress know that we're after Morrigan," he said. "That way when they kill her, it looks like we did."

"A little flashier than I'm used to," said Saul. "But why not?"

"Why does the Empress want me out and about?" asked Lance. "Even if she's butting heads with that asshole?"

Leliana smiled at that, her eyes taking that familiar glint she got when she was talking about wistful things. The sort of look she got when she teased Morrigan about Lance. The sort of look she got when she watched them kiss.

It made Lance's stomach turn.

"Morrigan talked about you," said Leliana. "In private."

Marjolaine nodded, smiling in her own way. "She did. The Empress thinks highly of you because of it. Dirge is going to try to find Morrigan first. Use her status as an apostate to get support against the Empress."

Lance looked away, towards his shoes. He didn't speak but they all knew what he was thinking about. And the set of his jaw left no ambiguity.

Velanna looked at him, squelching the words that she wanted to say to him, the warnings. She put a hand on his leg, just a friendly, comforting gesture to prying eyes.

Leliana stepped forward, clearing her throat to get Lance's attention. She held up a roll of parchment.

"This is a letter the Empress asked me to give you," she said. "It explains it all. Morrigan has disappeared."

Lilith perked up when she heard that, and she spoke with calculated calm, despite the excitement that raged in her gold eyes.

"Do you know what that means?" she asked. "The _child_."

Lance tensed, taking the letter from Leliana with greater force than he intended to. He clenched his jaw at that, an apology held back.

He looked at the letter, read it over.

Neria was making noise in the back of the room, tapping her staff on the ground to be given attention.

"What am I missing?" she asked. "There's something I'm missing."

Leliana nodded. "So am I. What child?"

She gave Lance an accusing look, one that softened when she thought she realized what was going on. And she smiled.

"You… you have a baby! You and Morrigan have a baby!"

Lance crunched the letter up in his hand. Lilith tried not to laugh out loud at Leliana's excitement. The poor girl looked around the room, tried to catch on, failed.

"What's going on?" she asked. "You have a child, don't you?"

Lance swallowed hard. He looked at the assembled group. They all stared up at him, expectantly, even Marjolaine. He supposed they deserved an explanation. If he was going to lead them where he was leading them, then they deserved that much.

He sighed, turned to face the wall.

"I…" he hesitated. Velanna, reached up, held his hand to comfort him. He closed his eyes, spoke to the wall. "I should be dead. I killed the Archdemon, so I should be dead."

There was a silence that spoke of the confusion, the wonder. They were all staring at him. Waiting.

And he figured it was now or never. If these people wanted to be Wardens then they deserved to know.

"An Archdemon cannot be slain without the Grey Warden that kills it dying. It's the only way."

There was a silent gasp. And Cauthrien spoke, voice shaking.

"You mean… you didn't kill it?"

"I did," he said. "I did. With Morrigan's help."

And Leliana stumbled backwards, reaching to cover her mouth, to stifle the gasp. She sat on the table, eyes filling with tears as she thought about the implications. As she realized what he was doing.

"She had a ritual," he said. "We had to conceive a child. And the soul of the Archdemon would enter that child."

He turned finally, opened his eyes to see the accusing glares, the looks of sheer horror. He held his arms wide, looked at Cauthrien, Saul, Neria. He breathed in what might have been a humorless laugh.

"I'm your hero," he said. "This is me."

Leliana's lips curled, became a mask of anger, accusation. She threw a light punch at him; hit his shoulder just hard enough for him to know what she thought of him.

"What did you do?" she demanded. "You… why…"

She fell to her knees, brought her hands up to cover her eyes. She was crying.

"How could you?"

He was sorry for shattering whatever idyllic vision of him she had. And he saw the horror on the faces of the others, the disappointment. All except Velanna. She looked serious, but she didn't blame him. She instead watched.

Lance grit his teeth, tried not to let any tears show. He was done with that. Crying wasn't him anymore. He didn't have time to. Cry later. Win now.

But he turned to the wall, cleared his throat to rid himself of the burning he felt there. His scar throbbed.

"Once upon a time," he said. And he reached down, took Velanna's hand again. He wanted to tell them everything, leave nothing in the air. This part… it was what they needed to know. He wasn't a hero, not by anyone's standards. But they needed to know why he wasn't, why he never could be.

"Once upon a time…" it hurt. His throat burned. He wanted to leave, to be anywhere else.

"Once upon a time there was a man."


	19. Chapter 19

He sat on the edge of his bed, not facing Lilith who hummed softly where she sat. She was waiting for him to speak, for him to ask the inevitable question, for him to say what he was no doubt thinking. She counted on it, really.

"I need to find her," he said finally. "Can you help me?"

She smiled wide, giving him a coy look. She batted her eyelashes innocently.

"Oh, I do not know," she said. "_Can_ I help you?"

He frowned, stood. He looked at her sincerely, eyes honest, soft. They never had been before.

And then he had a hand around her throat, once again draining her of magic. And he pushed her against her chair, choking her.

"I will kill you," he said. "Do you understand? No more games. No more lies. I'm through with that. I _have_ to find Morrigan."

She nodded, as well as she could given the hand clenching her throat right now. He released her, and she gasped, trying to suck in air. He sat back down, crossed his arms.

"I can," she said. "You… are feeling magic more keenly, yes?"

"Yes."

"But you cannot feel her through the ring?"

He nodded. And she tried to smile, but saw that he would really prefer that she didn't.

"She has deactivated it," she said simply. "So you would not be able to."

He looked down at the ring, frowned.

"Why?"

Lilith shrugged. "Perhaps she is in danger and doesn't want you running to save her?"

He tensed up at the thought. And he looked at Lilith, rage coiled behind his calm exterior.

"Can you fix it?"

Lilith nodded. "Certainly."

And she reached out for the ring. Lance removed it from his finger, held it out to give it to her. But he hesitated.

"You should know," he said. "If you do this, if I set down this path, it won't end until I get her back. You understand what you're doing? Everyone between me and her _will die_."

Her lips twitched. She wanted to grin wide, to enjoy every bit of this. And she wet her lips, searching for a neutral thing to say, to urge him on, to encourage him.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked. And as Lance let the ring drop into her hand, he whispered harshly to her.

"Because you need to know."

"What about the rest of us? The ones that are on 'your path'?"

"Get off it."

And she took the ring, held it in her fist. Her magic hummed, made a low sound, a small red flash. She handed the ring back to him, and leaned forward on her knees so that her nose almost touched his. He recoiled, taking the ring and hugging it greedily to himself.

"Is that it?" she asked. "Is that all you _desire_?"

He frowned, scowled, glared at her. He wanted to hit her now. She seemed to sense this, and stood up abruptly, slightly taller than him now. She looked down at him, arms folded.

"Come now, Warden Commander," she said. "I've seen you look at me. I look just like your dear, sweet Morrigan, do I not?"

He growled, squelching any number of curses he could have flung at her. Instead, he stood, looked her in the eye.

"Get out," he said. Lilith looked insulted, for only a second. Then she donned her usual cheery demeanor and politely exited.

She opened the door and was a little surprised to see Velanna standing there, hand raised as if she were going to knock. Lilith pushed past her, left the door open for Velanna to pass through.

Velanna looked at Lance, a little confused and a little angry. She perhaps thought that something tawdry had occurred and she was interrupting. Lance shook his head as he slipped the ring back on.

"Don't," he said as she entered. She shut the door behind her, standing with her arms crossed in annoyance. "Nothing happened."

"I wouldn't blame you," said Velanna. "According to Leliana she looks just like your… woman."

He nodded. She stood there for another second, the air between them becoming thick with tension. Lance looked up at her.

"Did you need…"

She looked at him, still angry. And then her features softened and she shook her head.

"I just wanted to see you," she said. "This is it, then?"

He nodded, looking at his ring. He could feel something now. Fear? He didn't know. It had been too long since he felt real fear to remember what it felt like. If it was, then he knew that he had to get to her and fast.

The child, Urthemiel, was doing something, something bad. This was what he had to do.

Velanna stood there for such a long time. He almost forgot she was there. He realized where they were, the low candlelight. He glanced at the bed he stood beside.

"No," he said. She stepped closer, slow, tentative. She tried to touch his arm, hesitated and stopped.

"Would it be so bad?" she asked. He hesitated before answering. He did care for her, as much as he fought the feeling. He did feel things for her he thought himself dead to. No, it wasn't so bad. But it wasn't good.

"I can't," he said. "You wouldn't like me."

"I like you," she said. That elicited a snort from him. He wasn't looking at her. He was staring outside the small window into the darkness of Val Royeaux. He might have been pretending to scan for guards or assassins if it weren't too dark to see anything.

Velanna took another step towards him, still debating whether or not to touch him, if the gesture would be welcome. She wanted to.

"Don't know why," he said. "I'm kind of an asshole."

"Be that as it may," said Velanna, a trace of humor in her voice. "I still manage to find things about you that are… endearing."

"Like what?"

She smiled, as she thought of a good example. It was harder than she would have expected. And that made her life, getting a glare from Lance.

"See?" he said. "You're drawing a blank."

She shook her head. "No. I can think of something."

And she tapped her lip in thought.

"You can be kind," she said. "When you try to be."

He grunted, disbelieving. She let out a small laugh.

"You are… quite understanding."

He shook his head.

"You are a professional. Very serious."

He accepted that one. And she stepped even closer to him.

"And I like you," she said. "Isn't that enough?"

"No," he said. "It never is."

And he looked at her. He wasn't smiling. He never did. She had never ever seen him smile.

"It's never been."

She drew her lips up into a thin line. She wanted to smile, if only because she was nervous now. He frowned again, looked at the bed.

"I'm going after her," he said. "I'm going to find her."

"Are you sure that would make you happy?" asked Velanna. "Are you sure this is what you want? What _she_ wants?"

Lance remembered how adamantly Morrigan had been when he promised to seek her out. She had told him not to. Was this okay? Was he really going to find her?

And what did he expect? To sweep her off her feet? To live happily ever after?

No. He already knew better than to hope for that.

"I think that's what she wants, yes."

"And it's what you want?"

He nodded.

"I see."

"Is there something _you_ want?" he asked. And she smiled. That's precisely what she liked about him.

"I cannot say," she said. And took that final step towards him, nearly touching him. Hand glancing against his.

"Why can't you?" he asked. She let her smile drop away, eyes went to half-mast. He was afraid now.

"Because I am afraid of the answer."

"You're never afraid."

"Not true."

"Fear is for the weak," he said. And was tersely reminded of a time not very long ago, in a camp in the woods.

"I am a little weak."

"So am I."

She reached up, touched his cheek gently. He flinched.

She looked away, an apology rising to her lips. And then he returned the touch.

"I can't do this," he said. And he put one arm around her. "I don't wanna."

She nodded to him. "I will do only what you want."

"I want you," he whispered. And he kissed her. She returned it. "I shouldn't."

"It is okay," she said. She reached up to put her arms around him, to lay her head against his chest. "You should be happy."

He breathed out, shaky. She listened to his heartbeat, listened to it pick up. She held him a little tighter.

"I don't wanna be," he whispered.

Leliana stood outside the door, hesitating. She wanted to knock, but the low voices from within begged her not to. So she stood, listening.

She wanted to tell Lance something important. She hoped he would be satisfied with her. She feared he wouldn't be.

It had come to her as she sat up talking with the cute Elf mage Neria. The girl talked quite a bit about becoming a Grey Warden, about being a real hero, about traveling with the legend himself. The Blight-Queller.

And then Leliana had come to a decision.

She was tired of finding something _else_ to do. She loved the Chantry, and missed it, but she also missed the excitement and adventure of her bard life. She certainly didn't miss Marjolaine, and was glad that this was to be their last job together. But she desired more.

So she had made the decision to ask Lance to recruit her.

She waited outside, hesitating longer than she had meant to. She heard Lance speaking, his hoarse, crude voice contrasting with Velanna's passionate, smooth tone. And then she had hesitated too long.

The light went out. She was curious about that; Velanna didn't exit his room. And then she stopped wondering when she heard the first breathy moan. It was quiet, but she recognized it just the same.

So she turned away from the door, looked back over her shoulder at it.

And she wondered what must have been going through Lance's head to forget about Morrigan, even for an instant. Not the Lance she knew. He never would have. But then, perhaps this wasn't him at all.


	20. Chapter 20

Oghren looked down at the sour stew. He didn't have much of an appetite, and that was quite a bit unlike him. He swirled it with his spoon, poked at the chunks of meat that floated in it.

The others were looking at him funny.

"Am I the only one that's going to say it?" he asked, throwing down his spoon. "The Commander and Velanna are gone on some secret mission in Orlais, and no one's told us a damn thing about it!"

"What is there _to_ do, Oghren?" asked Nathaniel. "It's not like we're overburdened with choices."

The Dwarf huffed.

"The Commander can't keep out of trouble for twenty minutes if ol' Oghren ain't around," he said. "And I ain't commandin' nothin' if he don't come back."

Sigrun jumped up, tossing aside her bowl. She was grinning from ear to ear, though that wasn't too much of a departure for her. But this time she managed to look deadly serious while she did.

"I'm with Oghren," she said. "The Commander is out there. And so is Velanna. I want to find him, I'm in."

Anders glanced around at the other Wardens, exchanging looks with Nathaniel. He laughed at the idea.

"Well you're all just nuts, aren't you?" he said. Nathaniel cleared his throat.

"Normally," he said. "I would not say anything. But I think it bears mentioning, Anders, that the Commander has taken a certain… personal interest in our lives."

Anders thought for a moment. The Commander had helped him try to destroy his phylactery, though the attempt had not been successful. He'd even saved his life, after a fashion, by recruiting him into the Grey Wardens. Even Nathaniel could say that the Commander could have – probably should have – executed him for breaking into the Keep and even admitting to wanting to kill the man.

More importantly, the Commander, for his piss and vinegar, had made Nathaniel realize how cruel and horrible his father had been. It was no surprise that Velanna had become so infatuated in the time they spent together, seeing as he had affected her life quite significantly.

"I think I put into words what we are all feeling when I say that it is not an option to leave them on their own."

Anders sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Alright. You're right. Let's go. Let's just go."

And they stood, left the table and headed for their rooms to obtain whatever items they thought they would need. None of the Keep's other Wardens suspected a thing.


	21. Chapter 21

Lance walked up to them slowly, cloak drawn up tight around his body. He was holding a cup, steam billowing up from it.

Velanna and the others were kneeling before a green hillock, overlooking what was left of a Tivinter Ruin. They gestured for him to keep low, but he ignored them.

"A whole platoon," said Cauthrien. "They aren't expecting us. They've all moved into the ruin. They're after something."

Lance nodded. "Dirge?"

"He went in ahead of the group."

Then it was true. Leliana and Marjolaine hadn't been wrong. He had no idea how, but they'd all found Morrigan. There was a platoon of men between him and her, but he had found her.

"Here," said Lance, handing the warm cup to Velanna. She thanked him for it, though she looked a little confused as to why he had just decided to brew her some tea.

She tasted it.

"It is good. Peppermint?"

He nodded.

"Got the recipe from Lilith."

He stood on the hillock, watched as the last few men in the platoon entered the ruin, hands away from their swords. He cleared his throat. There was no point in talking about it.

The ring throbbed on his finger. She was there. He knew it. She knew it.

He patted his side, felt the comforting steel sheathed there.

"Guess this is it then," he said. And they all looked at him, varying levels of stunned. He looked back, let them see his determination.

"Commander," Velanna began, but shut up when he held up his hand.

"No. I'm not asking any of you to follow me in there," he said. "Wouldn't dare."

Velanna looked at him with an even mix of rage and desperation.

"I will come with you," she said. He shook his head.

"No," he told her. "You aren't."

"I am," and she raised her staff, readying a spell of warding, to protect them both. Lance reached out, grabbed her shoulder.

"I've gotta do this alone," he said. "It's my duty. It's _my_ responsibility. The rest of you have something better to do. I don't."

Leliana stood, stepped towards him. She touched his arm.

"I hope you know what you are doing," she said, and glanced between him and Velanna. He nodded to her, a little shamed.

"It's been a long time," he said. "It was good to work with you again."

"Do not say that!" Velanna ordered. "This is not it. We aren't dying here! _You_ aren't dying here!"

He smiled. It was the first she'd ever seen, and it stunned her.

"I chose this," he said. "I did this. This is for me to do."

She readied another defense, another response. But her eyes fluttered, and she fought against a yawn. Then she wavered, stumbled on her feet a bit. He caught her as she fell, sleeping.

He handed her off to Cauthrien who laid her down gently.

Lance gave her a nod.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Commander," she said.

Lance stepped onto the edge of the hillock, facing the ruin.

Morrigan was in there. This was it.

This was his moment. This was what he'd come for. A year ago he never would have imagined that he could feel this way, so sure, so strong, so impossibly determined. He was going to do this.

No matter what. He couldn't live without seeing her just one more time.

He looked back at the group, how they looked up at him with that same… hero worship. And he took a breath.

"If I'm not back in three hours, and Morrigan isn't here," he nodded to Velanna. "Set her loose."

And he was gone.


	22. Chapter 22

He stepped into the ruin, the heavy stone doors shutting behind him with thunderclaps. The Tivinters loved their enchantments.

The sound caused the handful of soldiers standing in the wide Tivinter entry hall to look up, seeing the Warden standing just before the doorway.

One whispered something, and the others apparently agreed. Almost as one they turned and bolted through the door leading to the ruins proper, giving Lance a glimpse of the long corridor beyond.

He sighed. They were going to make this a little more difficult than it really had to be. It would be far easier to kill them if they stood still. But he would fight them, if he had to. And they would die. It was simply how it had to be.

And of course it would happen in a Tivinter ruin, and of course his love would be hiding from him with his Old God child. And of course there would be forty-odd men standing between him and her.

He intended to make good on his promise to Lilith: everyone between them would die.

He pushed open the large doors, their hinges rusting and requiring force to open. He entered the corridor.

It was long, narrow. There was only one door that led out, and it was being guarded by a dozen armed and armored troops. Mercenaries.

Lance stepped further in; let it be known that he wasn't giving up. He kept his cloak drawn up around him, used it to make him look bigger, more imposing.

One of the guardsmen said something in a language Lance didn't know. Probably Rivaini or some weird Free Marcher tongue. It didn't matter.

All that mattered was that four of the soldiers were stepping closer, as many as could fit in the narrow hall at once and fight. They held wicked blades, curved and blackened. They reminded Lance of Darkspawn blades.

Lance didn't speak.

He reached up, untied his cloak. It fell to the ground, floating on the ruin's stale air. He clenched his gloved hands, limbered them up for what was coming.

The guards shuddered when they saw him.

He was clad in the leather armor, the few punctures patched from his earlier fight. But now he had the addition of quite a few blades. Knives crisscrossed his body in easy to reach places, steel glinting in the light that filtered in from the cracks in the ceiling.

He was not going to die.

He crossed his arms, drew the blades sheathed on his forearms. And he turned them around in his hands, getting a comfortable grip.

The mercenaries charged, swords raised.

And he was slashing left and right, sharp and sudden. Arterial spray painted the walls, created gargled death cries. And the four men were dead.

The guards charged in their full number, hoping to overwhelm him.

He saw the weaknesses in their stances, in their armor. In their spirit.

They feared him. They feared dying. This battle was already won.

He stabbed out; let his blades lodge in a pair of throats. He crouched low, drew knives from his boots and found gaps in armor and ankles and knees.

He stood, the blades rising with him, finding eyes, necks, raised arms.

He spun, plunging the knives in a soldier's chest with force alone. He felt one of them grab him, try to pull him clear.

And Lance was putting blades in exposed flesh, bare patches unprotected by armor.

He was at the end of the corridor before the last body fell dead.

He spat out blood that was not his own.

The doors were heavy, required a strong boot to open properly.

The corridor led into a wide antechamber, a two-story affair. The upper level was bathed in sunlight, but the angle created silhouettes that told of a great number of soldiers, wielding bows.

Before Lance stood Captain Dirge, looking a little flustered to see the hallway behind Lance bathed in bright, coppery red.

And to see the Warden Commander before him, looking not at all bothered by the blood that stained his armor and his hands and his fine blades.

A small squad of troops was on the opposite end of the antechamber, standing before a great wooden door, holding axes. They had been awaiting orders to begin chopping when Lance arrived.

Captain Dirge waved forward a good number of men to his side, carrying swords and polearms and not at all hindered by the terrain. This would indeed be interesting.

"You should not have come," Dirge said. "The Empress will find that her faith in you was misplaced."

"Stand aside," said Lance. "Do not try to fight and you will live."

Dirge laughed. He saw that he had the advantage and was hoping to end this battle quickly. It wouldn't, of course. Lance had no intention of finishing these men quickly. For the act of denying him passage, threatening the woman he loved, he would end them slowly. He was already calculating the best ways to wound them so that they bled out slowly.

"Fire!" Dirge ordered. And the archers on the second floor did so. A volley of arrows went speeding towards Lance. He stood there, didn't move, didn't react.

Most of the arrows didn't pass into the small doorway where he was standing. They snapped against the walls or fell short. They went too high and broke against the stone rising above.

A few were on target, though. And he took them on the chest.

Three landed home, two arrowheads burying themselves into his leather armor, doing nothing to hurt him. But one hit him between the ribs, doing no serious damage but hurting him. He stood still.

And Dirge made a noise of distaste.

"Give me that!" he shouted, and a crossbow was handed to him. He shouldered it, aimed it right at Lance. The Warden Commander held his breath, hoped that he would survive this hit to visit ruin on these poor fools.

The bolt fire with a twang of the string, hitting him in the shoulder. Pain raced up his neck, the bolt going right through. He heard it land on the floor behind him, sliding a distance until it came to a full stop.

He almost lost his footing, the force causing him to stumble. He went to a knee, blood dripping from the wound. And he looked up, saw Dirge grin.

And then the man was looking on in horror.

"That's the best you've got?" Lance asked. And Dirge took a large step backwards.

"Are you mental?" he cried. "I've got an army! What do you have?"

Lance gave a wry laugh, loud enough to echo throughout the antechamber.

"You have men," said Lance. "You have men who fear their deaths. Men who want nothing more than to leave right now. Because if they stay I promise that they _will die_. And I will not let one of them live. This day demands blood. Yours. Or theirs."

And that created a ripple throughout the men Dirge had gathered. They saw the Warden in the doorway, wounded but still deadly. They saw the mutilated remains of their companions in the corridor past him.

Dirge looked left and right, refusing to believe that his men were going to abandon him.

"If I stand," said Lance. "Then I will kill. And I will never stop killing."

Dirge spat angrily. He turned to the men waiting at the far door with axes, he pointed and shouted at the top of his lungs.

"Start chopping, damn it!"

And he turned to his men, stepped back so that they were an armored wall between him and the Warden Commander.

"Kill him."

And then Lance stood, knives went flying, taking out legs and arms. He reached behind him, drew the thick blades at his back.

And he stepped into the horde of men. He began slashing cutting. He recalled the hours of training in Vigil's Keep, with Oghren. He let the rage build within him.

A year of loneliness, of separation. A year of hating himself. Betrayal. Darkspawn.

He was letting it fuel him, letting his movements become raw power.

He lopped off arms, heads. He felt armor buckle under his blades. He felt the tip of a knife slice neatly into him, let it roll off. He killed the wielder.

And he lost his blades in the chest of a screaming soldier, drew others, let them fly. He was lost. He saw red.

He was surrounded by red, spinning, turning. A shield splintered, the wielder crying out in pain. An arrow whistled past his head, the firer getting a knife in his leg that caused him to scream.

And then Lance was on Dirge, covered in the blood of thirty men. The sound of wood being chopped echoed throughout. And Dirge looked up at Lance, eyes wide and fearful.

"Please," he whispered. "Maker… have mercy!"

And Lance raised one gore-soaked blade, held to the hollow of Dirge's neck.

"When you see Him," he whispered. "Tell Him He's next."

And then he made a shallow cut, sending Dirge into a bout of gasping and cloying.

Lance stood, looked around, saw that the antechamber was a mess of gore and armored limbs. The second level had a few bodies, made by a crossbow he'd wrangled. The three men chopping at the door turned then.

Their eyes went wide, and they dropped their weapons instantly. Lance let them flee.

He reached the door; saw how close the men had been to breaching it. He could see through the wide gashes to the other side, to where the faint smell of magic wafted in. He could see little else.

He reached through one of the wider gashes, found the bar that sealed the door from the other side. It pulled away easily.

He shoved the door open with his hip, felt the pain of several stabs and a wide gash. He was a lot worse off than he'd realized. But he couldn't stop now.

He stumbled into the room, worked quickly to assess the area, still holding the knife and pointing it in a threat.

He scanned the room, saw that it was wide, saw that pillars held up the crumbling ceiling, heard the sound of water, saw a raised dais where bright sunlight came down, centered on a lone woman-

He gasped.

There she was. He let his knife arm drop, relaxed. There was no threat.

He stepped forward. She was standing there, back to him. She was wearing big, gaudy Orlesian robes, her hair still in that bun that she always wore it in. She looked little changed from the day he had last seen her, which was good. She had always been perfect the way she was.

"Morrigan," he said, his breath coming shorter than he would have liked. He was a mess. She wouldn't like it.

She turned, saw him standing there. She was so perfect, so wonderful, so beautiful.

Her lips were full, certain. They became a brief smile, as radiant as he always dreamed it would be. And then it became a worried frown, a look of concern.

"You should not have come," she said, and her beautiful voice echoed through the chamber. He wanted to laugh; the first words he had heard her speak in a year and she was telling him that he was wrong! So like her!

But then it gave way to anger.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You should not have come. I told you not to, did I not? I told you we would never see each other again! You-"

"_Shut up_," Lance said.

"Oh, I will not-"

And then there was someone next to him, a woman. He turned, saw that it was Lilith. He wanted to ask her what she was doing. But he already knew.

"The child!" she shouted. "Where is the child? What are you doing with it? What has it become?"

Lance turned to face Morrigan, nodded. "Where is our child?"

Morrigan sighed, closed her eyes. "I wish I could say that things had turned out the way I hoped."

"No," Lilith said, stepping forward. "They did not! Where is Urthemiel? What have you done?"

She turned the Warden, livid, shouting, "You cannot trust her, Warden, she has betrayed you before. Who knows what she has done with the child? Perhaps she is already harnessing its power!"

Morrigan looked at them both, too stunned by Lilith's clear resemblance to her to speak. She looked at Lance, her face quite determined. She perhaps already knew what was happening, how this would end. And she averted her eyes, looked to the floor.

Lance's hand touched Lilith's arm.

"You will not hurt him again," said Lilith. "Not if I have a say in it! We-"

And she was gasping, trying to catch her breath as the magic was drained from her. She looked at Lance, tried to bring a question to her lips.

And she looked down at her stomach, stunned to see a blade now protruding there. Stunned to see Lance holding it.

He raised his hand, holding a roll of expensive parchment. And visible was a bright red seal, strange, foreign to them both. Something he had not recognized when it arrived at Vigil's Keep. Because it was the personal seal of the Orlesian Adviser on Mage Affairs.

"I got your letter," he said to Morrigan. And he let it drop to the ground. He brought his face close to Lilith's, blood trickling from her mouth. "Did you think I was stupid? Or did you really think you were _that_ good?"

He kicked her down, made her lay on her back, blade jutting up from her gut.

"I know who you are," he said. And then he spat, cursed. "Flemeth."


	23. Chapter 23

_My Love,_

_I have not spoken to you in so long. I know that it must seem very strange to receive a letter from me now. It has been almost a year since we were last together._

_I am doing very well. I know that you are, too. It is your way._

_I wanted to let you know that I am sorry for hurting you. I have felt the grief I have caused you, through the ring, and I am so sorry. If only things could have ended differently._

_I love you still. Know that. I have never stopped loving you._

_Things here are not quite what I expected. You must know that it was always my intention to seek you out, after my business here was concluded. It was not so easy. I fear that the grimoire was flawed, that Flemeth perhaps anticipated my betrayal. The child is not what I hoped it would be._

_I will not lie to you. I wanted to use the child to increase my powers a hundredfold before finding you. I dreamed of seeking you out. There are rumors here of the Hero of Ferelden, that he has finally ended the Blight. I hope it is true. You were always meant for great things._

_I wish I could tell you that you have a wonderful daughter. Instead, the child is stronger than anything I could have imagined. I cannot control it._

_I always loved you._

_I am taking steps to control, perhaps destroy it. I cannot promise it will work. It saddens me to know that I may never again see you._

_I thought you should know, in case we never meet again._

_I have disabled the ring's power to prevent you from searching for me. Though I doubt it will deter you. Please heed my words and do not find me. It is for your safety._

_With All My Love,_

_Morrigan._


	24. Chapter 24

Flemeth was bleeding heavily. He hoped that she would stay alive long enough for him to take care of his business here, to abscond with Morrigan. With her magic gone she would not be able to heal herself, though he didn't know if it would keep her from possessing Morrigan when she died. It was better if she just bled slowly.

"The child," Lance said, reaching behind him and drawing his Dar'Misu. "Quickly!"

Morrigan looked away from him, hand rising to rub the bridge of her nose. She sighed, and shook her head.

"I told you not to come," she said. "Why did you come?"

"You couldn't have expected me to stay put," he said. "You know better than that."

"But I had hoped…" she looked away from him.

"The child!" he shouted. "Let's end this! Now!"

"I am right here, father," said a cool, feminine voice. He almost dropped the dagger, turned on his heel, searched for the voice. And he almost fainted when he saw a young, pretty woman emerge from the dark.

"Not possible," Lance croaked. The woman smiled.

She was beautiful. She looked quite a bit like Morrigan, though he saw a bit of himself, mostly in the chin. Her long black hair went to the small of her back, gold eyes burned with confidence. She smiled.

"Father?" she asked, testing the word. And then she laughed. "Oh, what a strange word."

She stepped closer. Lance raised the dagger in as threatening a manner as he could muster.

"Stay back," he warned. And she smiled.

"Or what? You'll kill me, father?"

And then she was suddenly before him, sweeping aside his blade hand and grabbing him by the neck and throwing him up against one of the stone pillars. It cracked.

Morrigan tried to word protest, tried to intervene, but the woman held up her hand.

"Stay, mother," she said. "And let this be a lesson."

Lance tried to lift himself up, tried to stand. It was a stupid move on his part. It only earned him a hard kick, slamming him up against the pillar again.

"Father?" she asked again. "I remember you. I can still taste the corruption within you."

Lance gasped, fearing that something had broken within him. It wouldn't be the first time, but he wasn't too thrilled about reliving it.

"I killed you," he said. And he rose to his knees. "I killed you, Urthemiel."

"No," said Urthemiel. "No, you know that you did not. In fact, that is how you live even now. My brothers were not so lucky. _Your_ brothers were not so lucky."

And he was hit again, this time in his bruised rib, causing his vision to fade briefly. He cried out.

"Stop it," Morrigan shouted. "Please, Urthemiel, let him live."

"And why?" asked the Old God. "Why should I? He should know how it feels, he should experience it. I died and so he will die, it is only balance."

And Urthemiel grabbed him by the throat, held him up, squeezed. He choked, barely able to breathe. He could only reach up and limply tug at Urthemiel's slender arms.

Morrigan tried to beg for his life, to reason with the creature.

"If it were not for him you would not live still!"

Urthemiel laughed at that.

"I suppose that is true," she said. "I suppose I owe you both for that. I shall make it painless then."

"No!" Morrigan screamed. And it was the first Lance had ever her sound so sad. The first time her confidence was shaken and true terror had blossomed through to the surface.

"C'mon," Lance whispered. "Do it."

Urthemiel grinned.

"I'm a little disappointed," said Urthemiel. "I had entertained the notion of knowing you properly. I do owe you a bit."

And then she was reeling back, gasping and choking from her drained mana. He didn't think for an instant that it was anything effective. He was not a proper Templar and she was an Old God, far more powerful than anything he could ever have imagined. He'd fought the Archdemon, and that had been tough enough. Who knew what this incarnation could pull off?

He grabbed up his Dar'Misu quickly. He wasn't about to give her the opportunity to hurt Morrigan. Damn what happened to him; this was all for her.

He slashed at the Old God, and she was surprised to see that an open gash had appeared on her stomach. And she grinned.

And he was thrown back.

"This should be fun," said Urthemiel. "I wonder: if you kill me will your soul be destroyed? Shall we see?"

And then Urthemiel was upon him, lifting him up over her head to throw him back down. He landed, rolled. He came back up with his blade, holding it underhand and rushing forward. He'd killed the Archdemon, and he would kill this bitch.

They clashed, her hands came at him. He whipped them away, slashed. Blood flew, shallow cuts on her arms. And she landed a punch that knocked him back into another pillar. It crumbled away.

He fell onto his back again. Urthemiel approached, implacable.

He kicked, trying to find her leg, break it. He felt his boot make contact but she only grabbed him, threw him away to the opposite end of the room.

Lance was pretty sure that this was what losing felt like.

He reached for the dagger sheathed at his leg, his Dar'Misu having been tossed away.

And he barely removed it before Urthemiel picked him up and punched him in the jaw, nearly rendering him unconscious. He felt a bone in his arm break as the dagger was taken from him, and felt horrendous pain burning in his side as he was stabbed with it.

His head cracked against something as she tossed him aside.

"Stop it!" Morrigan shouted. "Stop it! Let him live, please!"

"I am sorry, mother," said Urthemiel. She reached down, gripped him by the throat. "Father is not at all what I expected him to be."

And she held the dagger, raised it for the killing blow.

Flemeth shouted something, gargled her own blood as she did. Urthemiel and Lance turned their attention away, towards Flemeth. She was on her knees, pulling the blade from her stomach.

And then she slit her own throat, falling back dead.

Urthemiel looked ready to laugh, to say something about it.

Lance didn't let her.

"Hope you enjoyed it," said Lance, blood trickling down the corner of his mouth.

Urthemiel looked at him, confused. And then her face contorted in pain. She threw her head back, arms reaching behind her as though she might tear off her own skin. And she was screaming, rocking back and forth.

Lance used the brief respite he'd won, breathed out low. And he reached for his belt knife.

But then Urthemiel calmed herself, stood straight. She twitched, as though she were still trying to control herself. And she smiled down at Lance.

"Thank you, Warden," she said. "You handed it all to me. No better than if I had asked."

He shrugged.

He grinned past the pain, humorless, bloody.

"Least I could do, Flemeth," he said, wincing. "For savin' my life an' all."

She nodded.

And she reached down to lift Lance up, supporting him with her arms. He wasn't too sure that he could even walk under his own power. He couldn't.

She turned him to see Morrigan, who stood on the dais, shocked.

"Mother?"

"Yes, my darling daughter," said Flemeth. "It is I. You are so clever. Yet oh-so-gullible. You could not have controlled that creature. You never had the strength."

Morrigan winced at that. She prized her strength, her ability to control everything around her. Flemeth had just stripped her of that. And she looked at the Warden, her face taking on a look of horror and sorrow.

"I am sorry," she said. "I never meant for things to turn out like this, I swear."

He nodded.

"Don't worry about it," said Lance. "These things happen."

And she laughed, small, beautiful. She looked sad. She looked like she was crying.

"You have to control the soul," Flemeth said. "The body is nothing without the soul. And you must always control it. Right, Warden?"

"Of course," he said. And with one last look at Morrigan, he said, "I love you."

She nodded to him. "I love you, too."

And he took in the scent of his own blood, spilled in sacrifice. Avernus' research finally paid off.

He felt a rush of energy, the Taint within him fueling him, energizing him, making him ready. He reached up, gripped Flemeth's arm, and he put his shoulder to her chest. He pulled, rotated, caught her completely off guard.

It was an easy, basic move. He flipped her over his shoulder, she cried out in rage, mouth agape. And he reached to his neck, grasped the Warden's Oath, the Archdemon's blood from his Joining. He ripped it from its chain, shoved it into Flemeth's mouth.

And he slammed her mouth shut, teeth cracking against the pendant, causing the tiny trace of blood to flow into her mouth, down her throat.

Carrying with it the Taint.

Urthemiel's soul – bonded with Flemeth's - responded, recognized the Taint, the Darkspawn. And silently the Old God laughed, recognized its victory over the famed Witch of the Wilds, the victory it would soon attain over the world at large.

And the body convulsed, writhed, screamed soundlessly.

Lance backed away from it, stumbled towards the dais where Morrigan stood.

There was a loud flash of light, the sound of flesh tearing. There was a great dragon's roar, echoing throughout the ruin.

He was knocked back, impacted against the stone steps of the dais, felt a rib crack. Again.

He would have laughed if not for the pain currently burning through his body.

Lance was pretty sure he had passed out. He remembered staring into the brightest flash he'd ever seen, reaching back in pain, hoping that he'd made the right choice.

And then he was staring up at a massive hole in the ceiling, bleeding on the floor of an empty room.

He stood, his knee crying out in pain.

"Warden?"

He looked back, saw that Morrigan was there. She stumbled towards him.

"I… can scarcely believe it."

"I know," he said. "It's pretty unbelievable."

She reached down, smiled. He had waited a year for this and now wanted nothing more than to kiss her, hold her. He had created another Archdemon, had made another Blight. He was a monster, he knew. But this made it okay.

He reached up to touch her hand, to bring her closer, kiss-

"What the sod did you do?" demanded Rand, standing beside Krueger and Saul. The two older Wardens were still bandaged from their beating at Lance's hands and stood before a number of Templars.

"Ser," Saul said to Rand, trying to calm him down. "Ser, this man-"

"Shut up!"

Krueger and Rand stormed towards Lance, ignoring his obvious injuries.

"You stupid son of a bitch!" Rand shouted. "You… This is not possible!"

"There's still time," said Lance. "We can still stop it."

"Are you mad? The Blight will start anew! Barely a year after you ended it, and you made another!"

Rand reached up, tugged at his hair, looked around madly. He looked back at Lance, and at Morrigan, and at his Templars.

"Get her," he said, waving vaguely at Morrigan. "Take her away at once."

"No!" Lance shouted, and he was suddenly on his feet, knee shaking from his wounds. He held his belt knife in his hand, pointed it at the approaching Templars. "No one touches her! Nobody! You come closer and you'll die."

The Templars halted, looked back and forth between each other. They looked back at Rand, unsure how to proceed.

Rand snarled.

"Get them! He's one man – an injured man!"

"I killed an Archdemon," said Lance. "I ended the last Blight, I killed an army of Darkspawn. I can kill you, too."

The Templars took a few steps backwards, still glancing unsure. They knew of Lance, his status as the Hero of Ferelden. He was legendary, a true warrior. They would not fight him.

Rand screamed in anger.

"Give me that!" he shouted and relieved a Templar of his sword. "I'll do it myself."

And then he was at Lance, sword ready to slice through his gut. Lance turned, used the man's rage and confidence against him. He grabbed the wrist, lifted, turned the sword out of his way and put his blade at Rand's throat.

"I can kill them," he said. And Rand realized that he wasn't referring to the Templars. "Let me kill them and I can kill them."

He stared into Lance's eyes, fear showing through his own. The sword fell, banged on the stone loudly, echoed through the room.

"If they wish a fight," said Morrigan. "Let them have one. I am still up for a challenge."

Lance shook his head.

"No," he said. "Save your strength."

The Templar commander rushed forward, sword in hand.

"Wardens," she said. "I respect your skill, and we are all grateful for what you do, but we cannot allow this apostate to continue free from restraint."

Lance shoved Rand back, turned to the Templar.

She looked him in the eye.

"Warden, do not make me kill you," she said. "I will do it, believe me. This apostate has enthralled herself in the court of the Empress. She has corrupted Maker knows how many of the most important souls in Orlais. We will not let her leave here alive."

Saul came forward, hands raised, desperate to diffuse the situation.

"Please!" he said. "Commander, is she really worth all this? Is she really worth this death, this _war_?"

And Lance looked at the men arrayed against him, the swords. He was wounded. He was tired. He wanted nothing more than to sleep for a month. But he was not going to give her up.

So he looked at Saul.

"All this. And more."

Saul sighed, defeated. "Then I suppose there is nothing you can say. Nothing to change this."

And he winked at Lance.

And Lance smiled to himself, the first sincere smile he'd given anyone in a long time. He wanted to laugh, to cry. He was about to save Morrigan's life. But he was about to ruin it. He didn't know that it would work, that she would live. But somehow, he felt like he did.

If you have to do something terrible to someone to save their life, do you do it?

"I invoke the Right of Conscription."

Morrigan let out a sharp breathe. She reached for him, touched the back of his neck.

Rand scrunched up his face, looked angrier than could be fathomed.

"No," he said. "No!"

"Actually, ser," said Saul, reaching to hold the Warden back. "This is the Warden Commander of Ferelden, and you cannot override the orders he gives concerning the Fereldan Wardens."

Rand shouted, flailed his arms in frustration.

"Fine! Fine! Fine!" he screamed. And then he turned to the Templars. "You heard him! This _apostate_ is now a Grey Warden! We came here for nothing."

The Templars looked at each other once more, still unsure about what was expected of them. And then their commander smiled to herself, looking as though she'd been played for a fool.

"Let us depart, then," she said. "These _Grey Wardens_ have business to attend to."

Rand stared at Lance, angry spittle flying as he shouted.

"You will die, Warden," he said. "You _will die_."

And Lance nodded. He let his knife arm drop, relaxed.

"I know," he said. "And if you don't mind, we have an Archdemon to kill now."

And the words came out so easily. It wasn't right.

Rand sneered. "I will return to Val Royeaux at once to retrieve the materials for the Joining. I think we will have several days yet before the rest of the Order knows that Urthemiel is alive and well."

Lance nodded. It would be better for all involved if they just didn't know. They would have kill the Archdemon, and quickly. Or else the world was dead already.


	25. Chapter 25

Rand had led them to a secluded fortress in southern Orlais, built long ago for the Grey Wardens to defend against Darkspawn incursions in the south. It was empty, having fallen into disuse in the past years, but was a safe haven for the Wardens to prepare.

Lance sat at a small table in one of the wings of the castle, Velanna glaring angrily at him.

He was wrapping bandages around his body, taking care of the wounds that he'd gained in his one-man crusade into the Tivinter ruin. She was very angry.

"That was foolish of you," she said. "You almost died! You would have had you not…"

She let it hang in the air. They didn't need to repeat what he'd done. It slowly dawned on him how horrible he was. How evil he must be to create such a thing. But how could he balance anything against Morrigan's life? Was there anything he wouldn't have done to save her? And if Flemeth had been allowed to escape, fully in control of Urthemiel's soul, what then?

He had made the right choice in a whole mess of wrong ones.

"I know why you did it," said Velanna. "I cannot blame you. I may have done the same."

Lance nodded.

"Thank you," he said. "I hope that I can make up for it."

Velanna laughed. She looked at him, shrugged, still smiling.

"You? The Hero of Ferelden? You've already killed one Archdemon, why not another?"

He shared the laugh. "Yeah. I guess it's as easy as all that."

And he winced as he tightened one of the bandages around his arm. Velanna stepped forward, hand outstretched, glowing with magic.

"There's an easier way," she said. He nodded.

"I know. But there's something to be said for the covered in bandages look."

She laughed again. "Magic doesn't leave scars."

"I like my scars."

"I do, too."

She came dangerously close, the magic in her hand fading. She touched his cheek gently. He pulled away.

Velanna realized what she was doing, and felt ashamed.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I… Morrigan's downstairs, isn't she?"

He nodded. And Velanna sighed, turning away to look out the window.

"She is… pretty? For a human?"

"Yes. That's nice of you to say," said Lance. Velanna made a small noise in her throat. She wasn't too thrilled about paying compliments to Morrigan, or any human woman, really.

Lance stood. And then he sat back down when his knee refused to accept the weight. He gasped in pain and Velanna turned to see him.

And she stepped forward to use her magic to at least heal his knee. He let her. Almost instantly the pain ebbed away. She smiled when she saw the effect it had, how quickly he was able to stand.

"Thanks again," he said. And he put his hands on her shoulders awkwardly. She looked up at him, rose up on her toes to kiss him. It was small, quick. And then she was turning to leave.

She opened the door, and surprised herself to see Morrigan standing there. Both women looked very surprised, but nodded to each other and allowed one another to pass.

Morrigan regarded Lance with a brief smile.

"Hello, Commander," she said. And she laughed as she saluted. The laughter gave way to guilt and she was soon looking at him earnestly. "I suppose this is it, then?"

He nodded. "Yeah. We're in it deep now."

She let out a low breath. And she leaned against the wall, reaching up to rub her arms in the cold of the castle. She was still dressed in her Orlesian robes, and they did little to guard her against the cold. He remembered the robes she wore during their travels together, how they hadn't covered much skin. She had been cold then, too.

"I should thank you," she said. "The Templars would have killed me, had you not intervened."

He nodded again.

And she sighed, shook her head.

"Am I really going to be a Grey Warden, then?" she asked. And when she saw Lance nod, she sighed again, this time looking around as she smiled humorlessly at the thought. "So you saved me only to put my life at risk again? 'Tis a wonder you can even lace your boots in the morning with such backwards logic!"

He didn't share her laugh. He only looked at her, mind wandering.

"I think you'll make it," said Lance. "I think you're strong enough."

She approached him, a little wary of his proximity. They had been a year estranged, separated. There was much changed between them. They were not lovers now – they were barely acquaintances. And it suddenly hurt him even more than he thought it would.

She touched his shoulder, as though she were checking to make sure that he was real, that it wasn't fake. He flinched.

"I have often dreamed about how our reunion might play out," said Morrigan. "This is not at all like I had hoped. I feel as though we…"

"I know," he said. "I do, too. I wish that I didn't."

She sighed, wiped her eye and pretended that tears hadn't been there. And she looked away from him.

"There is much you expect me to say, no doubt."

"No doubt," he said. And he was standing. "You can start with telling me why you… did what you did."

"I wanted to save your life," she said. "I wanted to protect you. Or that was part of it."

"And the rest?"

"I wanted the soul of the Old God for myself."

He snorted. "Of course. I forgot I was talking to Morrigan."

And then he flipped the table over, scattered the various medical supplies all over the floor. He cursed aloud.

She turned to face him. And she looked apologetic.

"I warned you," she said. "I told you that you would be unhappy. And I told you truly."

"Yes, you did. Stupid, stupid me."

He looked at her, and she saw that for the bravado, the strength, he was still afraid of losing her. He had her right in front of him, but it still felt like he was losing her.

"I missed you," she said, and she touched his cheek, felt the coarse, wiry stubble there. She smiled. It was something she had wanted to do for the longest time. And now she could. It hit her then. This was _real_, he was really here. She was standing before him. "I missed you horribly. There were nights when I was up, sick, heartbroken because I did not have you beside me."

His eyes were moist now, and he had trouble looking at her.

"You know, every night I was without you I begged for death," he said. "You broke my heart."

"I know," she said. "I broke both of our hearts. I wanted to seek you out, but the child… was not a child. And she would have killed us both."

"And now I made her an Archdemon," he said.

"I have never felt this way before," she said. And her shoulders shook quietly, a silent sob that she was trying not to let him see. He stepped towards her; put a hand on her shoulder to comfort her. And then he pulled her towards him, into his arms so he could hold her while she cried on his shoulder.

They stood like that for a long time.

When she had stopped crying, and he had made it appear that he never had, she stepped away from him. She sniffled a bit, adjusted her robes.

"Have you been well?" she asked. "Have you been busy with Darkspawn?"

"I've been doing okay," he said. And he sat back down, hands folded in his lap awkwardly. He wasn't sure how to broach the subject, but he had to know. "What about you? Have you many Orlesian suitors?"

She shook her head, looked back at him. She gave him a sad smile.

"I have not wanted any other," she said. And then she laughed to herself. "But there were a few Orlesian women interested in me. Oh, those bored nobles!"

He shared the laugh, clumsy and awkward. "I wouldn't know."

"I am sure. And you?" she asked. She hesitated, her smile dropping away. "You surly have many conquests."

He looked away from her, feeling shame and fear creep up his stomach. He thought of Velanna, the kisses, the nights together. He thought of her smooth, firm body, and how she had made him feel good about himself. He thought about how she had looked at him before leaving the room.

And he swallowed hard.

"I slept with Velanna," he admitted, looking at his boots. "I'm sorry."

She hesitated. She wasn't sure what to say. He didn't dare meet her gaze. She had admitted being faithful to him for the entire time they were apart, and he had admitted being weak.

"'Tis no fault of yours," she said, stumbling over the words. "You assumed that we would never see each other again. I myself told you as much. You were… 'Twas just once?"

"No."

"I see. Do not be ashamed. You are a man, desirable, and you have certain needs…" she breathed. And then she hit him.

He was on the floor, holding the side of his head, feeling the bruise forming there. He was angry, and he leapt up to defend himself.

She was angry too.

"You… idiot!" she yelled. And he was yelling back.

"What was I supposed to do? _You_ left _me_. You told me we would never see each other again, and I'm supposed to – what? Just cut myself off from everyone? I tried it, Morrigan, and you know what? It sucks. I hate it. I hate everything."

He turned from her, punched the stone wall. He was breathing hard now, and struggled to keep himself in check. That had been brewing within him for some time. It felt good to vent, but he was sorry that he was doing it to Morrigan.

"You know," he said, calmer. "I died on that tower. I died killing that Archdemon. You left me. And I was alone. I was left with nothing without you. It's not fair. I love you, okay? I mean it when I say it, but that only goes so far."

And he was facing her, looking her in the eye. She fumed still.

"I came all the way to Orlais for you," he said. "I would do anything for you, but even I have limits. I'm so tired of hating. I'm so tired of being alone. And you didn't even want to see me."

"I wanted to see you."

"Then why did you leave? If you wanted to see me so bad, then why leave?"

"Because… Because."

"It's not fair. It's not. And she's so…"

"What?"

"You don't want to hear about another woman."

"I do. If she caught your eye, then I do."

"She's nice to me. She likes me. And I like her," he said, suddenly feeling very awkward again. He couldn't look Morrigan in the eye. "She's so… like you. And I missed you. And she was there for me. And I don't want to be alone."

Morrigan nodded, breathing shallow. She had trouble looking at him, keeping her anger in check. He wasn't wrong. She had left him. She had told him not to follow her, that they would never see each other again.

She remembered how she had left him: angry, bitter. She remembered their night at Redcliffe, when she had told him. When he told her that it was the same as cutting his heart out. And she was sorry for it. But it had to be done.

In the end she was right, or at least she thought so. She had succeeded in saving his life, but Flemeth had played them both for fools, had made sure that Urthemiel would grow out of her control. Who knows what would have happened if she had remained with the Warden.

But that was a lie she told herself. She was afraid of the Warden, of their attachment. She had been raised from birth to detest such things and it was hard to like it. At first. She had thought that she could make up for it by consuming the Old God's soul, gaining its power for herself. Then she would have sought him out.

That plan had failed utterly. Every day she was apart from him she longed for him. She couldn't stand to feel him through the ring, had become ill several times because of it. She had succeeded in insinuating herself into the Empress' court, putting herself in a position of power.

She raised the baby in secret, though the Old God's power caused it to grow rapidly, taking an adult form as quickly as it could.

And she still missed Lance. He was so close, and yet so distant.

And she was responsible for this shattered, broken man that stood before her.

Really, she should thank Velanna for caring for him when she knew he could not do it for himself. But she really wanted to wring that Elf's little neck.

"I… understand," she said. And she did. Though she wished she didn't. "I suppose I brought this on myself. Shall we tell her, then, that you are 'off limits'?"

And she saw the look in his eye, the way he tensed when she said that. And fear gripped her.

"Oh, no," she whispered. And he couldn't even look at her.

"That's the thing," he said. And she knew what came next. "Morrigan, I love you. But… you _left me_. And I can't trust you anymore. I don't know that – I mean, I want to trust someone again. And I trust Velanna."

"Do you love her?"

"I think I do."

"How can you love us both?"

"Can't I? Is it not possible?"

"I do not know," she said and turned away from him. He stepped towards her. She heard him breathing, heard his nervousness in his words.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I take it back. It's over between me and her. I'll tell her right now."

"Wait," said Morrigan, stopping him. "I only want you to do what makes you happy."

He looked at the floor again. And she was close to him, touching his hand. She reached up to trace the scar on his throat.

"I can heal you," she whispered. "Your voice…"

He touched her hand, held it. And he nodded.

"I'd like that."

"I am so glad."

And her hand hummed with energy. He stopped her, pulled her arm away for a moment.

"Leave the scar," he said. "I like it."

And she traced her finger over it, magic making his throat buzz. He couldn't feel what she was healing in him, couldn't imagine it. But it made him cough, and she laughed when he did.

And when he spoke, it was with _his_ voice. As she remembered him. And as he remembered himself.

"Thank you."

"You are welcome."

And then he kissed her. And she liked that. He was warm, good. Soft and comfortable. She leaned against him, her hands rising to grab him. They had both dreamed of this, imagined it. He had a hard time controlling himself, a hard time keeping himself from tearing away the robe, putting her up against the wall.

But he found a way.

"Wait," he said. And she looked disappointed to have him pull away. "I'll be back."

He turned, entered the hallway to find Velanna. He wasn't sure that he wanted to end it with her, but it was too selfish of him to expect to have both women. But Morrigan stopped him, grabbed his arm.

"Warden Commander," she said. "Do only what _you_ want. I… do not think solely of me."

And he hesitated again. But turned anyways.


	26. Chapter 26

He found her in the castle's east wing, leaning on a windowsill and staring off into the distance. The Frostback Mountains were looming high and powerful, foreboding. Lance knew that the Darkspawn thrived under there, and would likely be rallying to their resurrected Archdemon.

What a great job he did of ruining a good thing.

It didn't feel real yet, like he was still waiting for something to happen. He'd made an Archdemon, it was now roosting in the Deep Roads, but he wasn't really about to fight it, about to engage in the most unholy combat once more.

He was far more concerned with the very real, very tangible woman in front of him, who barely inclined her head when he entered.

"Hello," he said, lamely. She looked at him over her shoulder, a smile forming when she heard his voice. He shut the door behind him, indicating his desire for a private conversation.

"Is this your voice? Your normal one, I mean."

"It is."

"Oh. So she healed you."

"Yes," and he felt a small pang of guilt for that. He had denied Velanna the same chance. And it made him feel bad to see the disappointed look she gave him.

"I guess she's everything you hoped for?" she asked, turning again to face away from him. He cleared his throat nervously, suddenly wishing he were somewhere else. He didn't want to do this. Not anymore. He didn't want to have to hurt someone the same way he'd been hurt.

It was selfish of him.

Or, rather, it was selfish of him to break her heart _and_ to try to string her along. He'd heard of being caught between a rock and a hard place. Unfortunately for him, those were both women.

"I don't know," said Lance, finally. He was telling the truth. He had for so long dreamed of finally being reunited with Morrigan, finally having her to love forever. But now that he did he wasn't so sure the dream lived up to the reality.

It hadn't killed the pain, the loneliness. He still felt awful. It still hurt to look at her. He felt like saying "I love you" was only a matter of course, and less like meaning it. Perhaps it was simply due to their time apart and they would grow into it. Or perhaps something between them had changed irrevocably and they were simply not lovers anymore.

Whatever the reason, he found himself standing before Velanna, agonizing over what he felt he must do.

But Velanna didn't let him.

"Lance, there is something I have to tell you," she said, and she sounded upset. She was usually angry, usually stuck in the same monotone of irritation. But right now she sounded a lot like a woman.

He cleared his throat nervously and asked her to continue.

She turned, and he thought there might have been tears in her eyes.

"I want you to listen," she said. "Just listen."

He nodded. And she took a deep, shaky breath.

"I have followed you for a long time," she said. "I have fought beside you, and you have been there for me even when I was… intolerable. I know I do not make friends easily, much less with a human, and I'd like to think that we were friends. I'd like to think that I was there for you. That we've been more to each other than friends."

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes. He could tell this was hard for her, that she was struggling. He wanted to say something, tell her that he didn't need her to say this. But he knew that it would only make it worse for her. So he didn't say a damn thing.

"I know that Morrigan is special to you, that you love her," said Velanna. "I know that you did all _this_ for her. I know that she holds a special place in your heart. But do you think… could you pick me instead?"

He wanted to sit down, to lie down, to go anywhere else. He stared lamely at Velanna, felt a bit like vomiting. And somehow he also felt warm, happy. He saw Velanna's eyes and felt like, maybe, this wasn't so bad.

And she took another breath.

"I love you," she said. "I have fallen in love with you in the time we've spent together. I hoped – I really want you to love me, too."

He didn't speak. He might have been floored by this, might have been rendered speechless. He wasn't sure.

She looked at him, hopeful, anxious. She was hesitant, and she looked away from him, feeling shame. Lance stepped towards her, touched her cheek. He leaned closer to her, kissed her.

And then he said, "I don't know."

And she looked at him, a bit horrified, a bit hopeful that this at least meant she had made a dent. That perhaps he could indeed one day accept her.

"I just don't know anymore," he said. And he turned to walk away, to leave. She touched his back, the thin cloth of his shirt quite unlike the armor he more commonly wore.

"I will wait," she said. "I want you to be happy."

And he huffed at that. He stopped at the door, leaned heavily on it.

"Why does everyone have to say that? Why can't they just tell me to choose right now?"

And Velanna laughed a little bit. And she squeezed his shoulder tightly.

"I care about you," she said. "I am sorry for doing this to you right now, but please consider me. I do love you."

"It feels good to hear that again," he said. "But I just don't know anything anymore."

And he left, retreated to his room alone, separated from Velanna and Morrigan. It was just as well. They had several days to wait before Rand would return with the materials for the Joining. Velanna spoke with Neria, Cauthrien, Leliana and even Morrigan about what would be expected of them.

Saul was waiting nervously for the return of his compatriots, more than a little fearful of what his comrades would do if he survived long enough to be punished. He had sided with a traitor, of course. Perhaps he could retreat to Ferelden with him, escape all this.

Or perhaps he would die in the Deep Roads. Cheery thoughts all around.

Morrigan and Velanna maintained an icy relationship with one another, and Lance made sure to avoid them. He didn't want to be caught between them and certainly didn't know how he felt at all.

He liked Velanna, truly he did. And he cared about her. More than he expected to. They had been intimate, and Velanna loved him. That all counted for something, right? Perhaps he could find love for her, perhaps it was already there. He had been numb to such things for so long that he didn't know what he felt.

Morrigan still cared for him, always had. She was what he dreamed about, what he was thinking of constantly. But did he love her still? He did, but it was so hard to. It felt bitter, cold. Perhaps in all this time he had changed too much to still love her.

It was all so confusing, so awful.

He would have thought two women fighting over him would have been something to behold, but he would have rather had them hate him. At least that would make more sense.

Did he have to choose, though? Could he just take a third option and never pick either, live without them? He wasn't sure that was much better but at least it ended with no one but him hurt. He could handle that. He'd been there.

There was one night, as he lay in bed, he could hear them at his door. He didn't know if he should listen, or tell them to go away, or what.

Velanna had arrived there first, had hesitated. She wanted to go in, to be with him. She thought about him more and more, feared that telling him her true feelings had damaged their relationship. It wasn't fair to him, not after he had done so much for another woman.

But she had to tell him. She had to let him know. She longed for him, desired him. She loved him and he deserved to be loved. Morrigan couldn't love him. She couldn't love him and then run away from him. She had broken him, hurt him. She didn't deserve him.

And she had hesitated too long.

Morrigan appeared, and frowned at the Elf.

"What do you think _you_ are doing here?" she asked. And Velanna turned her nose up at the other woman.

"I am going to spend the night with the Commander. Lance."

"Did he not end your fling? Is that why he has been avoiding me?"

Velanna snorted. "End us? Why would he end us? You are the one who betrayed him."

"You do not know the story," she said. "And I have no desire to tell it to you. Know that I do not share."

"Nor do I."

And Velanna turned, knocked lightly on the door.

Lance supposed that he should get up. It was stupid of them to do this. They were bickering back and forth about stupid things like love when they had Darkspawn yet to kill. He could feel the dreams coming again, though he was learning how to better block them out.

He should be the Commander, not some lovesick Warden. There was no time; there was no rest for them.

So he stood up, ripped open the door.

He felt a little bad about that when he saw how he'd surprised Velanna.

But she smiled; cast a quick glance at Morrigan.

And she said, "Hello, Lance. I thought you might be a little… lonely. I hoped that we could keep each other company."

Morrigan rolled her eyes.

"My love," she said. "Please tell this little girl that you are not interested. _We_ have a busy night ahead of us."

She smiled wickedly, and tried to get closer, push her way through the door.

Velanna elbowed her, shoved her back into the hallway.

"You guys are insane," said Lance. "We have _much_ bigger things to worry about."

Morrigan nodded.

"Indeed we do. Darkspawn and such."

Velanna agreed, "We are Wardens."

And then both women burst into a fit of laughter, causing Lance to smile stupidly at the thought.

"Yeah. I suppose it is business as usual," said Lance. And he laughed at the thought. "I guess this isn't so unusual for us."

Morrigan shook her head, smiling. She looked at Velanna, and at Lance.

"I suppose you would not choose, if we forced you now."

And Lance bristled at that.

"No. We have too much work that needs doing. I can't be bothered with this."

Morrigan scoffed.

Still smiling, she said, "Oh, I did not know 'twas such a bother. You are a handsome man, with two lovely young women fawning over you. 'Tis a bother, of course."

Velanna looked at them, the smiles they shared. She felt bad suddenly, as though she had damaged something vital. Perhaps she was wrong in hoping. Perhaps he was happier without her. So she turned to leave.

Lance watched her, and his smile faded.

Morrigan saw this and knew that she was making things worse. She loved Lance, truly she did. But she had hurt him. Maybe she didn't deserve him. Maybe he deserved someone that wouldn't hurt him.

She reached out, grabbed Velanna's wrist.

"Wait, girl," she said. And she tugged the Elf closer, pushed her into Lance who held her for balance.

"What are you doing?" he asked. And Morrigan only offered him her best smile.

"You deserve better."

Velanna refused.

"You make him happy," she said. "He loves you."

And Morrigan turned to leave, said, "But losing you makes him unhappy. 'Tis better this way."

"No, it isn't," said Velanna. And she pulled away from Lance. She turned and went down the hall to her own room, just as Morrigan did.

Lance stood in the doorway, frowning.

He said to himself, "What did you do last night? Oh, I listened to a couple crazy chicks…"

And he turned to go back to sleep.


	27. Chapter 27

Rand returned with the Joining materials in tow, along with several crates of arms and four Wardens that he'd picked up on the road.

"Commander!" Oghren declared, jumping happily from the cart he'd been riding on. He carried his axe, Darkspawn Ravager, over his shoulder. "Ol' Oghren's come to save the day!"

Lance stood there, grinning wide as the Dwarf and the three Wardens from Amaranthine came forward. Anders looked sour, quite a bit afraid of being there. Nathaniel looked as dour as ever, but nodded to Lance just the same. Sigrun was her usual cheery self.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," said Lance, clapping a bewildered Oghren on the shoulder.

"Oh-ho!" he declared, hearing Lance's old voice. He craned his neck to look behind Lance, seeing Morrigan standing near him, arms crossed. He waggled his eyebrows. "Looks like you found your wild thing. Good on you."

"Ah, the Dwarf," said Morrigan. "I had almost forgotten you. Such is my luck."

"I missed you too," Oghren said and shuffled past into the castle, shouting his need of drink. Nathaniel sighed as he approached.

"Commander," he said simply. Lance nodded back to him.

"Good to see you," he said. And Nathaniel extended his hand to shake.

Lance accepted it and walked with the man into the castle. He looked at Morrigan nervously as he did. He half wanted to put an arm around her. It was probably a bad idea.

They helped Rand to bring in the chests, set them on a large table in the castle's dining hall.

"There are only a few of us. I figured we should at least be well armed."

Lance nodded. The man had calmed quite a bit since the last met. He was now in that "Warden Mode". They had a job to do, and they would do it. He hadn't alerted the other Wardens to the Archdemon's resurgence, but given a few days and they wouldn't have to.

"I brought something special," said Oghren, patting one of the chests. "Figured you'd want it."

Lance stepped forward, opened the chest. And he grinned when saw the contents, the slight glow it emitted.

"It's been a long time," he said. And he reached in. And he withdrew Starfang. Velanna stepped close to him, causing Morrigan to fake-cough.

"Hey," Velanna whispered. And she reached in to touch the armor that lay there, wipe away the dust.

Lance couldn't help but grin at it.

He set Starfang aside, reached in to grab the dragonskin armor, blew away the dust.

"Wear it," Velanna whispered. "I would like to see you wear it."

Morrigan was suddenly beside him, a hand playing gently on his arm. She smiled.

"As would I."

"I guess it's time, huh?"

He set it back in the chest, along with the sword. Later. He wasn't in the mood to get all armored up right now.

No, there were more important things to be done. He looked up at Rand.

"Shall we?"

Rand nodded. He reached into one of the crates, removed the Joining Chalice. Lance looked at Leliana, Neria, Cauthrien and Morrigan seriously.

"It's time," he said. They nodded to him, in varying states of confidence. Lance wondered briefly how many of them would survive. If any of them would survive. He felt good about their odds; only ten recruits had failed out of fifty in Amaranthine. And these were the finest recruits he had.

Rand poured a dark mixture into the Chalice, looking over the rim in as foreboding a manner as possible. He set it on the table; close enough for Lance to pick it up.

He gathered the recruits into a line, standing shoulder to shoulder. He took a breath.

"There are a few words said before each Joining," he told them. "We've said them since the first."

He looked at Morrigan, smiled glumly. She returned it. This was the moment of truth. He wasn't sure what he'd do if she failed. There was an Archdemon that needed killing, but would the point be? He had pulled her into this, though, and he would see it done.

He raised the Chalice to them.

"Join us… sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you."

He hesitated, scanned the group for who he thought should go first. He had always been present at the Joining, but always deferred to Varel for this part. He hated it.

"Cauthrien," he said, and handed her the Chalice. "From this point forward, you are now a Grey Warden."

She took it, looked at him with determination. And she put the Chalice to her lips, tilted it back and swallowed a sip. He took the Chalice, waited.

"Oh, my," she whispered, and fell back, hitting the floor with a loud thump. He supposed he should have caught her. Oghren kneeled over her, put his fingers to her neck to find a pulse. He was wearing full plate armor and Lance wondered how the hell he would find the pulse.

But he gave the thumbs up.

Lance let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Neria," he said. "From this point forward, you are a Grey Warden."

She took it, and her hands shook. She sipped, and handed it back. She was shaking.

And she fell, Oghren near enough to catch her and ease her down. He looked up and nodded. Two Wardens. That was good.

"Leliana."

She stepped towards him, reaching out shakily.

"From this point forward, you are a Grey Warden. Good luck."

She took it. And he wasn't scared. He knew how this would end. She was as much a Warden as he. They had both fought Darkspawn, had stemmed the tide of the horde. There was no way she could fail.

And she didn't. Lance was proud.

He looked finally at Morrigan, now nervous. He didn't think she would fail, but the worst possible thoughts buzzed through his head. He couldn't lose her. So he lightly tapped his pocket, made sure the poison was still there.

"Morrigan," he said with composure he didn't know he had. "From this point forward, you are a Grey Warden."

She took the Chalice, and gave him a thin smile. And she sipped.

Lance held his breath. But he didn't need to.

"She's okay, Commander," said Oghren. Four new Wardens. But would it make a difference? Twelve Wardens against a tide of Darkspawn?

Well, three had done the job last time, so this dozen was all that was necessary.

And he reached down to lift Morrigan up, instructed the other Wardens to do the same for their newest members, and took her to her room.


	28. Chapter 28

Morrigan woke with a start, grasping at the air before her, crying out. She was in a dark room with only a flickering candle for light, lying on a narrow bed. She looked around, desperate to see where she was, desperate to be away from the giant dragon that attacked her in dreams.

"The nightmares are pretty bad at first," said Lance. She snapped around, startled. He was sitting at a small table, holding a mirror. She realized slowly that it was _her_ mirror, the mirror he had given her. He was using it shave. He looked over at her, saw the look in her eyes even through the dark.

"Sorry," he said. "I needed a mirror and it was in your things."

She cleared her throat, feeling stiff and tense. There was a bad taste lingering in her mouth. She supposed that was what happens when you drink Archdemon blood. And she felt the slow shock of realization wash over her, the fear and knotted tension in her stomach. She was a Grey Warden now. She was a Grey Warden. It didn't sound right, did it?

Worse yet, she was going to have to call him "Commander" now. He would just love that to bits.

"So 'tis official," she said. And he nodded, running a hand over his bare jaw. He had Anders trim his hair down earlier, and he looked a lot more like the son of a noble. A noble in his own right.

"Here," he said, and carried a bowl to her. "I made you something to eat. You'll be hungry."

She clucked her tongue, about to tell him that she was not going to be treated like an invalid. But she was ravenously hungry.

She accepted the bowl and gulped it down in huge mouthfuls.

"Good," she said, swallowing it down. He laughed.

"Not really. I made it," he said. "Just some beef and a bit of hare we caught. The larder is empty."

"Still," she said. "'Tis welcome. I have actually come to miss thick Ferelden stews. I suppose I am now a spoiled Orlesian."

"You spoiled? Perish the thought."

She gave him a lopsided grin. He was shirtless, having only one shirt and not wanting to get beard hairs all over it. It occurred to her then that he spent an inordinate amount of time shirtless around young women. Perhaps he thought it made him seem dark and mysterious.

Right now it made him seem injured; he was covered in bandages. Some were stained dirty red, lacking proper medical care. Her healing magic would have served him well, had he let her use it.

Beneath the bandages she could see scarred flesh, a lifetime's worth. He was young, though, barely out of his early twenties. And he had a time limit on his life, being a Grey Warden. It was unfair. He should have been sitting cozy in Highever; slowly taking over the duties his father was tired of performing.

He should be considering Delilah Howe for marriage and thinking about producing himself an heir.

Instead he stood there before her in an empty, drafty castle, covered in wounds and bruises, scratched and battered, shaving by candlelight with a dull knife, and preparing for what might be his last night on Thedas.

And she realized that much of it applied to her, too. She likely would have been sitting in the woods somewhere, keeping away from the Templars. No. Actually, Flemeth would have taken her body upon her return to the Wilds, and she would be… what? Dead?

Regardless, she was as close to dead right now as she desired to be. She, too, was dying slowly, and in thirty years they would both be wandering down to the Deep Roads to face down however many hundreds of Darkspawn they could slay before being overwhelmed.

At least she needn't worry about getting wrinkly.

"Stop," she said as he reached to pull his shirt over his head. He looked at her strangely, and smiled to himself.

She stood, set the empty bowl aside, still starving, and approached him. She looked at his back, scarred by countless little wars in the deep, dark places of the world. He had seen endless dark, had battled the horrors that stalked children's dreams. He had slain an Archdemon already.

"I am a Grey Warden," she said. And he nodded.

"Does that mean I am destined for some higher purpose? Some call to nobility?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

She nodded, traced one the scars that bisected his shoulder blades.

"Ogre," he said. And she cocked an eyebrow. "Big bastard. Had me in his hand."

And she touched a small one, closer to his kidney.

"Bandit. In Amaranthine."

Her hand wandered, stroked other parts of his back, touched other scars.

"Sylvan. Hurlock. A pair of emissaries. A dragon."

She stepped around him; saw the mosaic of white slashes on his chest. Bandages crisscrossed, covered flesh damaged and broken. She touched him, gently.

"That's from the Mother," he said. She gave him a curious rise in her brow, and he smiled as a matter of course. "Long story."

"I would hear it."

"I would tell it. Had we the time."

"Later then."

"You still believe there will be a later?"

"I know it," she said. And with a smirk, she added, "Your skill would allow nothing else."

"I'm flattered."

She pressed lightly against a mauled part of his flesh, just under his ribs. He laughed a little.

"Tickles," he said. "That's from Velanna."

And she looked at him curiously, prompting him to look away from her, feign interest in something else.

"She attacked you?" Morrigan asked, a small trace of humor in her voice.

"Yep. It was a sort of 'meet cute' thing."

She scoffed at that. "I can see how _you_ might find a woman trying to kill you attractive."

"Hey, I went after you, didn't I?"

She scoffed again. "I never tried to kill you."

"Oh, yeah…" he said. And thought he should perhaps make mention of her leaving him, but it suddenly seemed too soon to be making light of such a thing, and as it was it made him just a bit angry. It wouldn't be right to take it out on her, though. So he didn't.

"What do you see in her?" Morrigan asked. And Lance couldn't stop the big grin that followed.

"Are you kidding me?"

She looked away from him, crossing her arms in irritation.

"She is nothing like me."

"She's exactly like you."

"So she was just a substitute?"

He sighed. He didn't want to have this conversation. But it was plain to see that he wouldn't be having another romantic moment – with either of them – if he didn't. And perhaps it was time he stopped trying to get the best of both worlds.

"No," he said. And he turned away from her, stepping towards the door. "No, she was something else. So were you."

And he left, the door slamming loudly behind him.

He returned to his own room, feeling as ambivalent as ever. He just didn't know anymore. So much had happened to him that he wasn't sure anything else mattered. It was too easy to see the Darkspawn, the Orlesian army, whatever, and just think "oh, great, yet _another_ challenge".

It was all getting so… mundane.

He'd fought monsters – legions of monsters. He was an Arl. He was a hero.

If there was something else that needed to be taken care of, something that needed killing or a hero's skill, then it wasn't something too particularly amazing.

It was irony of a sort. He could remember a time when he'd been a sheltered noble, living in a castle fighting only the dragons he could imagine. He had longed for adventure, for excitement. He desired the same heroic quests and journeys of self-discovery that he'd read about in the old books of his grandfather's collection.

Now that he had it, he wanted so much to just go back to being a bored noble. This hero stuff was for the birds.

He stumbled into his room, sliding his hand along the wall to guide himself. His door was cracked, allowing a soft glow of candlelight to shine out into the hallway. He entered, and was quite unsurprised to see Velanna waiting for him.

"What?" he asked of her, leaning against the wall. She was sitting at the edge of a large vanity that had spent a significant time gathering dust in the castle. She had wiped the dust away from the mirror and had been admiring her reflection. It astounded her that a person would _want_ something like this in their bedroom.

"I wanted to speak with you," she said. Her legs were crossed at the ankle, managing to show off quite a bit of one of her lovely thighs from under the animal skin robe. The Dalish apparently lacked a certain amount of sensibility when it came to their Keeper's robes.

"What did you want to talk about?"

"You and I."

He cleared his throat loudly, feeling as though things were about to get very awkward.

"That's quite a subject," he told her. "I think we _should_ talk about it."

"It was unfair of me to put you in this position," she said. "I know that you and Morrigan care for each other. But I am not sorry for it."

He shifted his weight from foot, nervous. He didn't quite remember women making him so nervous.

Then again, he couldn't quite remember having two women so willing to take him. Sure Leliana had a crush on him once upon a time, but this was something else entirely. Perhaps he was just a sucker for good looks. Perhaps he was just a moron.

"I love you, Lance," she said. And Lance found that it was very strange to hear. Good, but strange. "I want you to know it. But you love someone else, so I will not trouble you anymore."

She stood up, walked to the door. She was leaving, he realized, in more ways than one. She was stepping aside for him and Morrigan. She wanted him to fall in love with Morrigan. But he was suddenly unsure that he wanted to fall in love with Morrigan again.

When it was good it was wonderful. And he did care about her, but he and Morrigan had been in love once a long time ago. He was hurting. And Velanna was more than willing to help him heal. She cared about him just as much as he cared about Morrigan.

So he grabbed her arm.

"Wait," he said. And he hesitated. He probably should have thought this one out, should have come up with something to say before he tried to say it. But he could only say what he was feeling. That wall that was appropriate right now.

She looked up at him, expectant.

"I choose neither."

And her expectant look changed to one of surprise. And then anger.

"What?"

"I choose neither. I'm not choosing either of you."

"_What?_" she demanded.

He took a step away from her, taking to heart a bit of advice Oghren had once given him concerning scorned women; he put one hand in front of his groin.

"We're going to die tomorrow," he said. "We're going to confront an Archdemon with a million Darkspawn between us. I don't want to play these stupid love games. I don't want to talk about love and hearts and all that. I just want to do my duty. And die if I have to."

"So you're giving up?"

"What?"

"You are giving up. You are giving in. You think you're going to die and that you can slink away."

And her expression turned to one of humor. She smiled, looking quite beautiful in the low candlelight. Looking quite angelic.

"I will not let you get away that easily," she said. And then her smile faded, and she looked around the dark room. She sighed. "We really are going to die, aren't we?"

"Yes," he said. There was no point in clouding the issue, no point in hiding it. They were dead. As Grey Wardens they were already dead. It was just a question of when.

"It seems… almost unreal," she said. He nodded to her. "I suppose it will take us some time."

"Yeah," he said. And she stood there for a long moment. She looked around, quite nervous, aware of where they were.

And she spoke.

"If this is it – if this is all there is for us… I don't want to die without having known you one last time," she said. And she stepped cautiously towards him, reached for him. And when she touched him gently he did not recoil, he did not flinch. He liked it. And he didn't want to be alone.

"Make love to me," she whispered.

And he kissed her, his hand suddenly rising to her neck, holding her. He thought of Morrigan, though the betrayal wasn't as sharp.

And he heard her at the door, clearing her throat loud enough to be heard.

He looked up, stepped away from Velanna fearfully.

Morrigan stood there, wearing a look of amusement. She shook her head, and Lance was surprised to see that her first reaction wasn't anger.

Lance opened his mouth, an attempt to apologize or defend himself dying in his throat. And he could only stand there lamely.

He decided that he should leave. They would be getting mobile in the morning and would not be able to rest until they were in the Deep Roads, chasing after the Archdemon.

He tried to leave, was stopped by Morrigan's gentle hand. And she looked at him with that same deviousness that had characterized her since he'd known her. She glanced back at Velanna, lips twitching nervously.

"We are going to die," Morrigan said. "This is our last chance."

And she pushed him gently, urged him into the room. And she followed after him, shutting the door behind her.

They agreed not to talk about that night ever again.


	29. Chapter 29

The morning came, and he was awake just as soon as the sun was rising. Neither Morrigan nor Velanna had stirred as he made his way down to the dining hall, where he would make a quick breakfast of bread and cheese.

He was already drawing his equipment from the chests, setting it aside for his use, when Morrigan entered, wearing a loose traveling robe and carrying with her proper mage attire. She regarded him with a nod, letting him know that she was now a professional, now the sorceress that had fought beside him.

She helped him put on his armor, strap himself in. It had been a long time since either of them had seen him wear this armor. The armor itself was unique. One-of-a-kind. Dragonbone armor was rare enough, though there was plenty to be found if one knew where to look. Armor made from a dragon's skin, however, was unheard of as far as either of them knew.

This was something special. This was something only they knew.

"I love you," she whispered, and gently touched his neck with her lips as she tightened the breastplate. He looked at her, reached around himself to hold her hand.

"I love you," he said. And it suddenly felt okay. He suddenly didn't feel so bad. Instead, he felt like this was what he had been meant to do. It was unfortunate that it had come at the very end of their lives, but maybe that made it all the more special.

And he was calm now. He was steel.

He drew Starfang, examined the Silverite runes that glowed along its length. He held it in his hand, felt the balance. It had been a long time since he'd unsheathed it, since he'd been comfortable enough with it to hold it. For a while, it had felt like a broken part of him.

Now it was the extension of his arm, it was light as a feather, sharper than sharp.

"Morrigan," he said. "We both know what happens when that Archdemon is slain."

"Yes, Commander."

"I could go into this long speech about how I care about you and how I want you to stay behind. I could do the same with Velanna. I won't."

He turned to face her, held her hands. He smiled sadly, and she returned it. Her eyes studied him, tried to look past his own, to see something deep inside him.

"This is our doing," he said. "Our mistake. Whatever happens, no matter what, _we _have to be the ones to kill it. It's our duty."

She nodded to him. "Yes, my love. No matter what."

Morrigan lay her robe down on the table, took his belt knife. And she began cutting into it, hacking away the sleeves, the hem. And she looked at him with a bright smile, somehow feminine and childlike all at once.

He was filling a pair of bandoliers with flasks; firebombs and shockbombs and other explosives. A clutch of elemental grenades from Vigil's Keep and that crazy Dwarf.

He had knives, and poultices. He was going to war. And she was going with him. And that was all there was to it.

She cut down her robes to size, adding feathers captured from the woods outside the estate the day before. She fixed it up to look Chasind – like an apostate. So that it looked more like the robe he'd met her in. The robe she wore when he declared his love for her.

The robe she wore when she fell in love with him.

Velanna was suddenly there, across the table from them. She looked at Lance, her gaze strong and sure. She looked like she had when he had met her in the forest, in the Wending Wood. And he looked like that same strong soldier that had clapped her across the jaw for trying to kill him, that had winced when he saw the red gash his gauntlet had made. Yet he looked different. Maybe this is what he looked like in love.

And she let herself smirk; sure and cheerful. She was going to die. But it was okay. Because they were going to die together.

And that was okay.

She too set to preparing herself. Set to gathering her magical trinkets, set to her prayers to the Creators. Morrigan didn't say anything. She only helped. She tidied Velanna's hair – made messy from the prior evening – and whispered something in her ear, something that made her smile.

The others wandered to the dining hall, each beginning their preparations in their own ways.

Oghren drank, heavily. He hefted his axe, checked the balance, before donning his Legion of the Dead armor. A fine statement.

Sigrun said whatever prayers or rituals the Legion said before battle, steadied herself, calmed. She wasn't as cheery, yet not at all morose. She was ready.

Nathaniel fingered his bow string, checked the edges of his daggers. He gathered up just the right amount of arrows, the right balance of magical to non-magical arrows. He looked at the Commander with a nod, his eyes afire with the intensity that Lance had always known him to have.

Anders was playing with his damn kitten, telling it that this would be their last day together, to play. He had a number of magical rings laid out, and was trying to choose one to carry with him.

Neria was trying to straighten her robe, trying not to shake nervously. She held her staff, and it shook in her hands. She was trying to straighten her hair, tie it back in a knot that would stay out of her eyes.

Cauthrien was polishing her sword, her armor. She wasn't upset. She looked almost happy. This was what she wanted. This was how she was going to make up for Loghain, for her shortsightedness.

Leliana was praying to the Maker, for forgiveness, for absolution. She was checking short swords, the balance of her bow. She was readying leather armor, holding a Chantry symbol close to her chest.

Rand and Saul were writing letters, to loved ones. They were glancing back and forth, searching for the words they didn't know how to express in writing.

They were Wardens, all of them. They were _his _Wardens. His responsibility. He suddenly felt like it was a crushing weight, a burden. He felt like he had some weeks earlier, sitting in a dark room in Vigil's Keep, wishing that he could just die already.

But it went away, was replaced by a fondness. He was proud to command these men and women. He was proud of himself for once.

He felt like he should say something. So he leaned on the table heavily, breathing slowly.

"Everyone," he said. He cleared his throat loudly to make sure he had their attention. "I'm going to say this because I think it needs to be said. I don't want anyone to feel obligated or to think they need to come because of sentiment. We're probably going to die. We're probably going to fail. We are a dozen against a million. This is something I've decided for myself."

Morrigan's hand took his, and Velanna held the other. It was comforting.

"_We've_ decided this for ourselves. If you don't want to come I won't think less of you."

There was a long silence; they looked up at him, at Velanna and Morrigan. This was his fault, and none of them deserved to go where he was going.

"I'm sorry you got dragged into this," he said finally. And there was a noise a lot like a scoff.

And Oghren spoke up.

"Commander, I think I speak for all of us when I say stop it with the dramatics and let's go kick some Darkspawn ass."

The Wardens stood as one, looking like a powerful army. And they were. And once more Lance was at the head, going into a hopeless battle, to slay a corrupted god, to bring home victory or die.

And he couldn't be happier.

The Darkspawn were too thick and the way to the Archdemon too vague to go through any of the Deep Road openings in Orlais. It would take too long to go to Orzammar and navigate the Deep Roads back to the Dead Trenches. The Darkspawn were likely too thick to wade through and make it out in fighting shape.

It was easier to think of it as one-way.

So they were going through the Korcari Wilds, where the Darkspawn had risen up for the Fifth time. Where an obscure opening to the Deep Roads was. Where Flemeth – trapped with Urthemiel in the corruption of the Archdemon – would be waiting.


	30. Chapter 30

The Korcari Wilds were ablaze. Not the whole Wilds, not by far. The marshlands were too moist for that; they would never succumb to a forest fire. But a dragon's breath, the flaming, noxious fumes, those could set a portion of the Wilds on fire, if only for a while.

Andraste was still circling overhead, occasionally swooping low to spit flame at the Darkspawn still milling about the center of the Wilds.

"I'll be damned," Lance muttered. He was certain that the dragon didn't know the difference, certain that it was just a dumb animal. But it was comforting to think that the great creature wanted them to succeed.

"I can scarcely believe it," said Morrigan. "The Wilds are burning."

"Happy?" he asked her. She shrugged.

"I do not yet know. They were home for the whole of my life. I hated them, but to see them set on fire?"

"It is horrible," said Velanna. "These trees, the animals. They do not deserve this. They did nothing wrong."

"I wouldn't worry," said Lance. And Rand was beside him, nodding. He wished they had a spyglass to see down into the forest.

"There are only Darkspawn there," said Rand. "Nothing else. Nothing worth preserving."

Lance unsheathed his sword.

"From here on," said Lance. "Our lives are forfeit."

Sigrun snorted. "What do you mean from _here_ on?"

"The rest, Sigrun. I meant the rest of us."

And he took the head of their column, finding a patch of forest left untouched by flame, a path to take them into the Deep Roads.

During the Blight the Darkspawn had come north from the Wilds. There was no way to track them, no way to follow them to their source with the depth and danger of the woods and the Darkspawn. But Andraste had lit up the forest, given them a beacon to follow.

And now they could feel them, smell them burning. The reek of fetid, burning flesh assailed them. It made them queasy at first, but they suppressed it and went forward.

The Darkspawn had been largely routed by the dragon, either returning to their underground lair or dispersing into the burning woods. Either way, they were a non-entity at this point.

The entrance to the Deep Roads appeared to have once been a great door. Perhaps the exit from the underground to a surface settlement, or a means by which the Dwarves filtered out their air. It had been burst open from within long ago, the rusting, decaying remnants of its structure bulging and scattered about the forest floor. It was blackened from smoke, the very same smoke that was becoming hard to breathe through despite their mages' magic.

The dank underground air wouldn't be a significant improvement, but at least they needn't worry about dropping dead. The twelve Wardens made their way into the Deep Roads, unmolested by Darkspawn or traps of any sort.

He could feel Urthemiel, the group mind of the Darkspawn throbbing behind his eyes. It was noxious, sickening, but at least let him know they were close.

They didn't need torches, not with the mages able to cast light from their staves. Dull blue and green and purple glows reflected off the bare walls, only to be eaten up by the Darkspawn corruption deeper within. The Deep Roads were covered with the fleshy, organic Taint.

A physical manifestation of the Darkspawn's corruption.

Starfang added to the glow, the mysterious alien metal creating an ethereal aura. It was comforting.

The runes along its surface glowed brightly, the Silverite enchantments reacting to such a strong concentration of Darkspawn.

They could hear the scratching of talons on stone, Shrieks rushing to and fro. The Darkspawn had to have sensed the Wardens by now. Why they had yet to attack wasn't something Lance could guess at. It didn't matter, though. Soon enough they would be going toe-to-toe with the monsters in their full muster.

Rand nudged Lance, pointed to his eyes and then ahead at the encroaching darkness kept at bay only by the combined magical lights being wielded by the Wardens. Lance took a step forward, pointing his sword out to illuminate the long tunnel ahead of him.

And one of the sneaking Shrieks charged forward.

Lance ducked, allowed one of Nathaniel's arrows to whistle by his head and pierce the Shriek's throat. It took two stumbling steps forward before falling flat on its face.

And that seemed to be the only signal the Darkspawn needed, springing forth from narrow hiding places and dark crevices to wave their curved swords and broken spears. They carried stolen shields, equipment made from whatever pieces of rust and iron they could scrape together.

And Lance welcomed them.

He was up, found the first Genlock to dare approach him and lopped its head right off its shoulders.

The Wardens reacted as one, sending their own swords, arrows, magic forward, killing the Darkspawn in droves. It wasn't a real attack, Lance realized. It was a distraction, a feint. Urthemiel wanted them distracted, but for what?

Saul was beside him, glad to fight next to the Legend Himself. He was grinning madly as he thrust his sword into a Darkspawn chest. He was using his shield to pound them back, all while Lance hacked and skewered with Starfang.

The Darkspawn fell back then, rushing back into the Deep Roads to hide and prepare another ambush.

Lance held his hands out, signaling the Wardens to stop.

"Wait," he said, voice echoing through the Deep Roads, muted in their minds by the buzzing Darkspawn Taint. "It's a trap."

And they all hesitated, trying to see a way around the ambush. They could feel it, the festering mass of Darkspawn waiting just ahead. The Darkspawn were leading them straight into an ambush, where the full horde could descend upon them.

"Commander," said Oghren, scraping his axe gratingly against the wall to rid it of Darkspawn gore. Sigrun saw what he was indicating, a strange rune carved into the wall. They would have missed it if not for the massed light being provided by the mages.

"It's an old marker," said Sigrun. "Some of the old Thaigs had these."

She felt along the walls, looking for what Lance assumed to be another rune. He had no idea how this Dwarf stuff worked. He'd have been lost in Kal'Hirol if not for the two Dwarves. The short bastards sure loved their secrets.

Sigrun tugged on the Commander's arm, indicating for him to use his sword to illuminate another section of wall. He looked nervously back down the tunnel, wondering how long the Darkspawn would wait before deciding to charge headlong in full force. Sure they'd take tremendous casualties, but at least they'd kill the Wardens.

And the wall appeared to be a blank slab, surrounded on either side by slabs covered in runes.

"To the untrained eye," said Sigrun. "It looks like a history of the Thaig's founders. And it repeats on the other side."

Lance snorted at that. To the untrained eye it looked like a lot of runes and nothing at all like a history.

"But this blank spot…" she said. And she gave it a push. The slab ground open, rusted gears creating a noise that reverberated throughout the Deep Roads. It revealed a long set of stairs, descending into the deep darkness below.

Lance stared back down the tunnel, where the Darkspawn were amassing.

"Saul, take point," he said, indicating the staircase. Saul nodded and hefted his shield, stepping forth into the dark to be able to dull any Darkspawn charge from below.

Lance gestured for Oghren to take up the rear, a position he wasn't very happy to take. But when the Darkspawn surged from the Deep Roads, he was most eager to hold the rear. Neria aided him with her magic, looking quite a bit shaken to be facing Darkspawn up close and personal, but altogether very determined.

She was brave, for such a young lady. He reckoned that she must have been one hell of a mage, especially if she had been able to ditch her Templars and find him.

She spat flames from her fingertips, causing Oghren to howl in rage – as opposed to fear. The Darkspawn flew back, Oghren's axe and Neria's magic proving to be too powerful for them. It wasn't a concerted attack anyway.

Urthemiel was howling now. Lance could feel it behind his eyes, in his mind. She-he-it was drawing all the Darkspawn in the Roads, gathering them up in the Dead Trenches, for a defense or for a real assault on the surface.

Either way, that was where the Darkspawn was and that was where the Wardens were headed.

The Darkspawn hounded them down the great stairs all the way to the bottom. The Wardens switched off with Oghren, to give him a rest when it became too tiring to keep up the rage or to keep swinging his axe.

The Darkspawn dead soon clogged the stairs behind them, making it too difficult for the Darkspawn to follow.

Rand kicked back a Hurlock that had died on his sword, stumbling backwards as they reached the bottom of the stone stairs. Neria immediately set to burning the pursuing Darkspawn, cutting off their approach.

But it wasn't the whole of the horde, not by far.

The stairs had released them in the deepest reaches of the Dead Trenches, a mile or more beneath the Korcari Wilds. And where the whole horde was amassing, under the talons of their Archdemon.

He was still below them, in the deep chasms of the Dead Trenches where Lance had never been.


	31. Chapter 31

Lance had lost count of how many Darkspawn they'd slain – how many he'd slain personally. His sword arm ached. Neria was near him, coughing and struggling to keep up her magic. It was very tiring, very difficult. He was doing a good job of defending them both, though.

Anders was keeping them from collapsing in exhaustion, using his spells to support them. Lance at least didn't feel tired. He was all too happy to skewer another Genlock.

Velanna and Morrigan were doing the most amazing job of keeping the whole horde at bay, launching fireballs and all sorts of magical destruction. They were sweating profusely from the effort, though so were the other Wardens, despite the cold of the underground chasm.

Hundreds of Darkspawn were piled at their feet. Cauthrien was just to his left, staying close enough to defend him, her armor now a mess of Darkspawn gore. He'd lost track of Rand and Saul, though he had a good idea of where Sigrun and Oghren were cutting a bloody swathe through the Darkspawn. In an hour's fighting they'd not managed to get any nearer to the Archdemon.

At least if they died, they would have drained the Darkspawn's numbers enough for the remaining Wardens to muster an army before the full Blight began.

Leliana and Nathaniel were close to the mages, defending them with what arrows they had left, what arrows they had scavenged from the dead.

Darkspawn archers were shooting shots down at them from the high parts of the chasm. Though they failed to hit anywhere close to the Wardens.

The Darkspawn shrank back from Starfang and its glowing runes. He imagined that they knew how deadly it was for their kind, how powerful a weapon it was in his hands. They feared it, they fled from it. Even those Darkspawn that were able to muster their courage to charge were too rapidly cut down to matter.

The pile at his feet grew, necessitating a few kicks to keep it low enough to fight over. The Darkspawn had no shortage of manpower. They had no fear of losses they could not replace. The broodmothers were busy in their hatcheries or nurseries or what have you, churning out more Darkspawn even as the Wardens slaughtered them.

Lance parried swords, dove his blade into the chests of his attackers. Cauthrien glanced over at him, eyes wide, swinging her Summer Sword in wide arcs to lop off heads. She grinned.

He returned it, and slashed the throat of a warbling Hurlock.

This was no good. They could kill all the Darkspawn they wanted but it made no difference if they couldn't gain ground towards the Archdemon. And it was just a matter of time before the Darkspawn circled behind them, surrounded them and overwhelmed them.

Morrigan sent a wide plume of flame through the Darkspawn lines, burning them and scattering them. It wasn't enough, though. For every hole they could carve through the Darkspawn, dozens more rushed forward to fill it.

This must have been what the Calling was like. This must have been what it was like to die. It was suiting, he thought. They would either succeed and stop the Blight in its tracks, or fail and have died gloriously.

Potentially thousands would die on the surface, and that was on his head, but at the very least they could go out in style. Twelve Wardens, shattering thousands of Darkspawn. That sounded good to him.

A black arrow bounced off his shoulder, the scale armor defending him from harm. He glanced up, saw the Darkspawn had filled the bridge above them, were leaning down now to throw weapons, fire arrows. And he grinned at that.

"Velanna," he shouted, and signaled to her. She looked up, saw what he did, and a look of horror briefly crossed her face. And then she was smiling.

And she raised her staff, held it up high. She took a deep breath, held it in. And the stone ceiling began to shake and rattle, pebbles and dust falling down onto the Darkspawn below.

The Korcari Wilds was a thick mess of trees, trees as old as the world itself. And those trees had roots that went very deep.

Velanna summoned them, urged them to break through the stone ceiling, to shatter it, to reach for the Darkspawn-covered bridge.

Huge stone boulders and bricks rained down, crushing the Darkspawn and threatening to do the same to the Wardens. The Mages gathered together. Anders and Neria and Morrigan focusing on their best, strongest shields to defend them from the falling rock.

Lance grabbed Neria's robe, holding it with white knuckles as he watched great pieces of the rock above crash down, reverberating on the shield that defended them.

And then the bridge came crashing down, Darkspawn scattering, falling to their deaths, impaled by roots. The huge, Dwarven stones were not made to easily fall apart, but centuries of Darkspawn corruption and neglect had made the bridge weaker, able to fall into its heavy, thick sections. And fall it did.

The Darkspawn ran for cover, screaming. Lance felt it when they died. It was so horrid, so powerful a scream through the Taint that even the Archdemon recoiled from it. The stones crushed a great many of them outright, smashed them into blackened paste.

The rest ran for cover, ran in fear. They were scattered, caused the whole pressing horde to stumble back, to fall over itself.

Dust and dirt rose in great plumes, making it difficult to see, sending unprotected lungs into fits of coughing and spitting.

The Darkspawn stared up at it, horrified, searching.

And then they cowed when Lance leapt through, landing head-on. He slammed against them, knocked them back, used the full force of his weight to get them to stumble, fall. And he rose up faster than they could act, sword in hand.

He slashed left and right, cutting them down as they stared in disbelief. The Archdemon screamed, Urthemiel trying to assert his control.

But before the horde could regroup, before they could muster up, the Wardens charged.

They were an army unto themselves, and they were terrifying to behold. Bards like Leliana would have struggled to put such a sight to words, to convey the terror that rippled through the Darkspawn.

In the end, it wouldn't matter.

All that mattered was that the Darkspawn were dying.

That they cowered from fearsome War Cries, that blades felled them faster than they could follow. Magic shot great holes through their lines, the entire horde came to a stuttering halt.

And now it was the Darkspawn who were on the defensive, who were running.

A blade poked into Lance's ribs, barely able to puncture through his armor. He answered it with a broken Darkspawn nose, a slash. A pair of arrows impacted his chest. He felt blood leaking under his armor but simply snapped the shafts and fought on.

They were in the midst of the horde now, pushing them back. He was hacking, slashing, cutting, anything it took to get the Darkspawn to just die. He felt heat, fire. Leliana was beside him now, fighting with her short swords, cutting the Darkspawn apart.

A sword dance across his cheek, leaving only the smallest scratch. He shouted in wordless fury, found the Hurlock and gutted it.

He turned, looked left and right for another target, another Darkspawn creature to kill. There was none. They had all fled, pushed deeper into the Trenches, towards their master.

And Lance had to look no further for the Archdemon. It came to him.

It screeched, roared its anger. It was flying as best it could in the chasm, swooping right for the Wardens. Lance grabbed Leliana, pulled her aside as he jumped. He hoped the others were doing the same.

Urthemiel let out a breath of atrocious purple flame, rotting away everything it touched. Rand was caught in the blast, his entire body melting to ash. Lance watched as he fell to pieces.

And then he rose up, reached for Urthemiel's low-swooping talon. He grabbed on, held it. The Archdemon was arcing up, trying to get higher for another pass. Lance wouldn't let it happen.

He remembered Riordan's sacrifice, how he had torn the wing of the Archdemon to immobilize it, to give Lance the opportunity to kill it. And he hoped that his try at it would end a lot cleaner.

He leapt, shoved Starfang's point into the membrane of Urthemiel's left wing, slid with it.

Starfang bit right through, guided him to the stone floor even as it descended rapidly. He fell, Starfang still in hand. He landed with a roll, white-hot pain shooting up his leg and filling his eyes with tears.

The Archdemon shrieked its frustration, tumbled to the floor. It was up on its talons in an instant, roaring, challenging the Wardens.

And its Darkspawn horde returned, charged, surged to defend their master.

Lance grabbed up his sword, tried to stand, failed. He stumbled, leaned against the wall to steady himself. This was no good.

Morrigan charged for Urthemiel, staff pointing right for it. And she fired a bolt of lightning that singed its hide. She dodged a tail whip, rolled under a beating wing. She summoned a block of stone from the ground to smash into its ribs, cracking one.

Lance hobbled to her aid, glancing back at the Wardens as they fought with the Darkspawn, keeping them at bay so that their Commander could deal with the Archdemon.

Morrigan fought valiantly, launching bolts of lightning and ice at the Archdemon, dodging his attacks. She was unable to get the upper hand, though, wounded as the Archdemon was. She was only able to keep herself alive, and keep it entertained.

He was unable to run to her, to stand with her. And that pained him. Literally – he had probably shattered his leg. The Darkspawn were being held at bay, but only for the moment. They could very easily muster their numbers to overwhelm the Wardens and kill them all.

Lance was running out of time.

And then Morrigan was knocked back, a claw swipe sending her into the wall.

Lance cried out, shouting to get the Archdemon's attention as he lumbered towards her. Urthemiel craned its neck, looked at him.

"Come on!" Lance shouted. "Come get me!"

He raised his sword, pointed it at the Archdemon.

And the demon regarded him with a slap of its tail. Lance felt something break, and he landed hard, rolling a distance before laying there, bleeding.

He didn't have time to waste, though. He pushed himself up, pain wracking his body. He wasn't unused to pain. He could work through it.

He was on his knees, seeing that Morrigan was lying not far from him. Blood trickled from her mouth but she looked altogether no worse for it.

Lance reached down to grab his sword, felt white hot pain blind him, keep him from grabbing it.

And then Urthemiel was staring him down, his big eyes glowing.

This was it. Lance looked down at Morrigan, and she was looking up at him.

This was the end.

He felt her touch his hand, grasped it.

"I love you," she said. And he looked down at her, giving a last smile.

"I never stopped," he said.

Darkspawn loomed around him and he could hear his fellow Wardens shouting. It was all so distant now. He was faced with his death again, but it didn't seem so foreboding. No, it actually felt… welcome. It was a relief. He didn't have to worry about it anymore.

But then he saw Morrigan, saw the Darkspawn reach for her.

And he reacted without thinking, working through the pain, through the fury.

He grabbed up his sword, Starfang. He struck down every Darkspawn that dared to approach him. He rended heads, stabbed through chests. He used the last of his firebombs to scatter a cluster of them. But more were coming, filing out from cracks and crevices, blades waving.

Urthemiel pounded him with a large claw, sending him smashing into the stone ground to cry out in pain at his battered and broken body.

He saw the Darkspawn close in around him, and reached for his belt knife, one last display of defiance.

There was a shrill cry, and a woman was standing over him, magic sparking around her. He thought it was Morrigan for a moment, but then realized that it was not. It was Velanna, come to his rescue. She slapped her staff left and right, created a perimeter to keep the Darkspawn at bay while she blasted them again and again with magic.

They fell around her, and Lance could only look up in awe. She was so amazing.

But then a dark arrow hit her, causing her to falter. He tried to stand, come to her aid. A second arrow hit home, and then a third. She fell.

Lance dove for the archer, put one hand around his throat while he stabbed with Starfang. He stood, slashed all about him, killing as many Darkspawn as he could.

He looked over his shoulder to see Velanna lying on the floor, bleeding. He already feared the worst. Morrigan was up, and she ran for the Elf, making brief eye contact with Lance as she pulled her away.

And Urthemiel struck him, delivered a slap with his snout so that he pinned Lance between the wall and his large teeth.

"Come on," Lance challenged, feeling blood pour from his mouth.

"Come on. I want you to! Do it!"

And he was suddenly shouting, madly, at the top of his lungs.

"Kill me! Just try it! Kill me or I'll kill you, I swear it!"

He raised Starfang, ready to stab out Urthemiel's eyes.

But before he could be swallowed whole, or attack the Archdemon, a loud horn sounded. It was familiar to Lance. It was a Dwarven horn.

And then there were stocky, armored warriors rushing into the chasm, arrows being launched down from overhead to pepper the Darkspawn. The Legion of the Dead.

The Dwarves were suddenly upon the Darkspawn, slashing and hacking to carve a path through to the Wardens. Some died, but that was a relief for them. And it was for Lance, too.

The Darkspawn immediately near him stopped dead in their tracks, bodies convulsing, arteries bursting. The Archdemon let him drop, craned its neck to see what was happening to his horde.

And Lance couldn't help the laugh that came next, gurgling and bleeding.

He saw Avernus, staff raised. The Warden was grinning from ear to ear as he made eye contact with Lance, and the two nodded to each other, warriors. Brothers.

He had led the Legion while he went to his Calling, had come all the way to the Dead Trenches to kill as many Darkspawn as he could, to find redemption in this. He'd found it.

Lance was up, ignoring all the injuries, the pain. He was stabbing his sword into Urthemiel's side, again and again. The Archdemon called out in fury, turned its head to kill. But it could only cry out again as Avernus hit it with powerful magic, amplified by his research into his Taint.

He laughed, called out in victory.

Lance smiled, a true, happy smile. The first in a long time.

"You lose," he shouted to the Archdemon. And he fell back, landed on the ground with one happy laugh.


	32. Chapter 32

He pushed the glass aside, leaned back in his chair. Velanna sat up in the bed, writing furiously in her journal. The journal he'd given her a long time ago. Morrigan was near him, leaning on her elbows. He regarded them both with ambivalent nods.

"Well?" she asked finally, Lance sitting up straighter. Velanna shot them both dirty looks, frowning at whatever mistake Morrigan had caused her to make in her writing.

Lance crossed his arms, bracing himself for the inevitable fit that would surely come later. He thought he should offer the girl water, but she was very particular about her writing being disturbed. Why, then, had she insisted that they be present while she finished?

And then she set the quill down, sighed. And she carefully shut the book so that the pages would not be creased. She handed it to Morrigan, who promptly opened it and started to scan pages.

"No," she said finally, handing it to Lance. "No, 'twill not do."

And she gave Velanna a sly smile, and she returned it, and looked at Lance for the final verdict. He took the book, opened it and ran a finger down the page, looking for his name. He found it, paused a moment.

"You said you wouldn't include the part about the larder," he said. "You said that you wouldn't tell anyone."

Morrigan smiled to herself, leaning away from him so he couldn't hear her snicker. Velanna shrugged.

"You should not have told me," she said. And Lance glared at her. He continued to thumb through the book, and frowned again.

"There. I'm not that whiny," he said, and he turned the book around for her to see. She read the passage and shrugged again.

She took the book and stood up, something that took a great amount of effort on her part. She wore one of his shirts as a gown, and her knees shook. She had been bedridden for some time, and had just now been able to walk around a bit. Lance was immediately up and helping her, to a stern look of displeasure from Morrigan.

And then she smiled at him, looked away sheepishly.

He helped her to the balcony, where she could look out at the grounds and the surrounding lands. She liked the view. And so did Lance, to be honest. She held the book close to her.

"I like it," he said, after a while.

"What?"

"The story," he said. "I like it. Just wish you'd left out the larder."

She made a noise of satisfaction at that.

"I should have known you had a thing for Elves," she said. And he leaned on the balcony's stone boundary, smiling to himself.

"And mages. Apparently."

Morrigan was suddenly behind her, touching the wound with her forefinger.

"Does it hurt still?" she asked. And Velanna hesitated before answering.

"A little."

"It will get well," said Morrigan. And Lance was proud of her. He hoped that she was a little more like human now.

And Morrigan looked out across the Keep's grounds.

"'Tis not at all so bad," she said. "I've new friends, a new home."

"Nope," said Lance, not looking at her. "It's okay."

They stood there for a long while, still staring out into the distance.

And Lance took the book, opened it. He scanned through it a bit more, remembering all those stories, those adventures. He sighed wistfully.

"Not bad at all."

And he thumbed to what appeared to be the end of the story, frowned.

"Hey, there's still a few blank pages," he said.

"I know," Velanna told him. And he handed the book to Morrigan, who took it and flipped through it.

"'And he looked at her with great passion, and with the fullness of his heart'," she quoted, making Velanna blush. "'She knew then that he loved her.'"

And she smiled up at Lance, who was blushing, too.

"'Tis true," she said. And then Morrigan looked at Velanna, eyes raised.

"What will you end it with?" she asked. And Velanna shrugged at her.

"I don't know yet."

"We'll think of something," Lance assured her. And Velanna went back to the bedroom, to lie down. Lance put his arm around Morrigan, sighed again.

"Gets me feeling sentimental," he said. And she laughed, putting her own arm around him.

"Ah, yes," she said. "A longing for the past?"

"Among other things," said Lance, and he flashed her a devious smile of his own. And together they turned to enter the bedroom.

"You know," he said, and cleared his throat. "I'm sort of the Arl of Amaranthine."

"Oh? How did that happen?"

"Well, first there was this pretty girl and her crazy mother in the woods…"


End file.
